


Trip the Light

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale in Love (Good Omens), Eventual Romance, M/M, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: What if it was Crowley that sheltered Aziraphale under his wing in Eden?ORWhat if Aziraphale fell in love first and Crowley took a little longer? Or a lot longer...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> first chapter is canon dialogue heavy but that will taper out as we move forward
> 
> So shout out to Neilman for that quality banter

Aziraphale had given away his sword and he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. The humans had needed it more than him. What was he going to protect here anyway? With their departure, the gates of Eden closed and Aziraphale would be assigned elsewhere, flaming sword or no.

Staring out over the desert, he sighed, the beginnings of worry winding in his belly distracting him from the appearance of the Serpent as they slithered up the wall and took on a distinctly more human shape.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” the snake—well, now man-shaped being said sardonically, cocking his head as he looked off after the same pair of humans Aziraphale had been watching.

Aziraphale laughed awkwardly and then realized what the Serpent had said made no sense. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, well that went down like a lead balloon,” the Serpent clarified.

Aziraphale pondered for a moment and realized the Serpent probably meant that things went poorly with Adam and Eve so he nodded. “Yes, yes, it did, rather.”

The Serpent scrunched up his nose. It was a good nose if anyone asked. Aziraphale wondered if he chose it when he changed forms or if this was just how he looked. 

“Bit of an overreaction if you ask me.”

Aziraphale looked at him askance. That sort of talk was awfully close to blasphemy and the other angels already didn’t like Aziraphale’s penchant for having his own opinions about things.

“First offence and everything,” the Serpent finished, squinting at him and looking for a response. “I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway,” he said in hushed tones, as if confiding a secret in Aziraphale. The whisper sent a chill down his spine.

“Well, it must be bad…” Aziraphale started, realizing he didn’t know the Serpent’s name. Should he know its name?

“Crawley,” the Serpent supplied and Aziraphale nodded.

“Crawley,” Aziraphale repeated. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.” 

Feeling sound in his logic, Aziraphale looked back out over the desert, the threatening storm sending shocks of static over his scalp.

“Ah, “ Crawley said dismissively, “They just said get up there and make some trouble.”

“Well,_ obviously _, you’re a demon. It’s what you do.” Aziraphale pointed out, not at all sure why he was still having this conversation. He glanced at Crawley out of the corner of his eye and for a moment wondered what the demon had looked like before he fell. He surely hadn’t had those intriguing eyes.

_ He’s a demon _ , Aziraphale reminded himself. _ Nothing intriguing about it _.

“Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a ‘don’t touch’ sign. I mean why not put on the top of a high mountain? Or on the moon?” Crawley rambled, twisting up his face into a scowl.

Aziraphale wondered if the demon was even talking to him. Or if this was just an elaborate conversation with himself. 

“Makes you wonder what God’s really planning,” Crawley said and that _ was _ directed at Aziraphale.

“Best not to speculate,” Aziraphale said. “It’s all part of the great plan. It’s not for us to understand.” 

Aziraphale paused, casting about for the right word. He landed on the one Gabriel had used in his speech earlier that morning. “It’s..._ ineffable _.”

“The Great Plan’s ineffable?” he asked incredulously, latching onto Aziraphale’s strange word choice immediately.

“Exactly,” Aziraphale said primly, absurdly pleased that he’d gotten a response out of Crawley whose only purpose seemed to be to regard him lazily, tilting his head from left to right as he stared at Aziraphale. It made Aziraphale feel strange and tingly. “It is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words,” Aziraphale’s voice broke and Crawley just stared harder.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” he asked abruptly, head cocked to the side.

Aziraphale stammered. “Er...yes…”

“You did. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?” Crawley narrowed his eyes.

Aziraphale looked away.

“Lost it already have you?” Crawley asked and he didn’t sound accusatory, only curious.

Uncomfortable under the inquisitive stare of Crawley’s inhuman eyes, Aziraphale searched for a better answer than the truth which is what tumbled out of his mouth anyway. “I gave it away,” he said, the words mushed together as they tripped out.

“You what?” the adversary nearly shrieked and when Aziraphale looked at him, he looked delighted. 

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale said defensively, his time in Heaven preparing him for mockery and derision from his compatriots. The other angel’s thought Aziraphale was simple and a bit of a mess. But God had chosen him for this post and he _ had _ done his best. And part of his post was loving the humans and he gave the sword away out of love so…

“There are vicious animals!” he protested, more for his own benefit than anything. “It’s going to be cold out there and she’s expecting already and I said, here you go, flaming sword, don’t thank me and don’t let the sun go down on you here."

Crawley continued to stare at him and at first, Aziraphale thought he was perhaps pleased at Aziraphale’s clear failure, but the look of shock twitched into a smile and Aziraphale thought for a moment he looked _ proud _.

“Oh I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” Aziraphale breathed, wringing his hands as thunder crashed in the distance.

“Oh you’re an angel,” Crawley said dismissively. “I don’t think you _ can _ do the wrong thing.”

If only Gabriel and the others would think that.

“Oh thank you,” Aziraphale breathed, some of the tension in his belly uncoiling. It shouldn’t have felt like such a relief to hear a demon tell him he hadn’t made a mess of things and yet... “Thank you. It’s been bothering me,” he confessed.

Crawley’s laughs tapered off. “I’ve been worrying too.”

Aziraphale looked at him quizzically. 

“What if I did the _ right _ thing with the whole eat-the-apple business? A demon can get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.”

Aziraphale couldn’t even imagine what sort of trouble Crawley meant. And he definitely didn’t want to. 

Before Aziraphale could say anything, maybe assure him everything would be fine, Crawley continued, a thread of laughter returning to his voice, “It’d be funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one?”

Crawley grinned at him unselfconsciously and the mirth of it infected Aziraphale, making him laugh at the sheer ridiculous of the statement before he realized with horror what he was actually laughing at. And who he was laughing with! “No!” Aziraphale cried and Crawley’s face fell a bit though he still looked like he’d like to laugh some more. “It wouldn’t be funny at all.”

Thunder crashed overhead and Aziraphale continued to worry over the couple in the desert. He hoped the sword was enough.

Bracing himself for the strike of the first raindrops—he’d heard about raindrops, they were supposed to be cold apparently—Aziraphale started when nothing came even as the stone around him grew dark and wet. He looked up and saw the spread of black feathers over his head, a soft canopy protecting him.

“Oh,” he said and his stomach did something complicated that it had never done before. “Thank you.”

Crawley shrugged. “No sense in us both getting wet.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, chest feeling warm and affectionate and…

Aziraphale realized with something like horror that he loved the Serpent. 

It wasn’t particularly hard for angels to love. They were beings of love after all and Aziraphale held love in his heart for all of his fellow angels and for these new humans and most likely for all the humans yet to come. But he didn’t think he was supposed to love demons. Not at all. 

He was certain nothing good would come of this. 


	2. Heaven, 4004 BC

Aziraphale tried to hide surreptitiously behind the cohort of other Principalities as the staff meeting began. Taniel gave him a frustrated look when he bumped them with his elbow for the third time that morning. Everyone knew that Aziraphale had been stationed at the Eastern Gate. The gate that the humans had escaped from. And everyone knew it was Aziraphale that had been on apple tree duty when the Serpent—Crawley, Aziraphale’s mind supplied helpfully, conjuring the image of cascading copper curls—had tempted the humans to eat the fruit. 

And that knowledge had firmly cemented him as something of a black sheep among the other angels. They kept casting him dark, doubtful looks. Not that they had liked him very much before. He’d heard from several of the other angels that they found Aziraphale too enthusiastic and they thought his reactions to things were _ inappropriate_. Enthusiasm implied opinions and opinions led to doubts which led to questions which led to...

He tried to comfort himself with Crawley’s words. Perhaps the Almighty had _ wanted _ the humans to eat from the tree. Perhaps it had all been part of the plan. Which was ineffable after all.

The archangel Gabriel took to the podium at the front of the room and gave his speech about the fall of Eden. Apparently, until Eden was firmly shut down, no angels were allowed on Earth. Assignments would be given out by the end of the century.

The crowd murmured as it dispersed and Gabriel’s voice boomed out over the Host. “And, Aziraphale, Principality, please see me after the meeting.”

The other Principalities gave him a wide berth as they left the vast meeting hall with a few judgmental sneers thrown his way for good measure. Aziraphale took a deep breath and approached Gabriel who was looking over his notes. His white robes were draped artfully over his strong-looking chest and even Aziraphale could tell he was a dashing fellow, probably the kind to inspire holiness everywhere he went.

“Are you Aziraphale then?” Gabriel asked, eyes flicking up, irises a disconcerting purple.

“Ye—yes,” Aziraphale stammered, trying not to fiddle with his hands. Being called up for a one- on-one with an archangel after a staff meeting couldn’t possibly be good.

Gabriel finally turned his full attention to him and gave him a brilliant smile that sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. Aziraphale had noticed early on that very few angels smiled. Aziraphale liked smiling and he thought that perhaps it was one of the many reasons the other angels thought he was a bit rubbish. So this smile with all of Gabriel’s straight teeth—his mouth was open so wide Aziraphale thought he might be able to count them—made Aziraphale think of another smile, so much more genuine despites its sharp and crooked incisors.

He needed to stop thinking of Crawley.

“The Almighty wanted me to assure you that you should not feel guilty for what happened,” Gabriel said, the words emotionless and memorized. It sounded to Aziraphale’s ears like Gabriel strongly disagreed with what he was saying.

Aziraphale felt a surge of relief and nodded, perhaps a bit too energetically. 

“God has decided that you’ll be assigned as humanity’s primary protector.”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “That’s—that’s quite an honor.”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Gabriel said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’ll be a lot of hard work, but the Almighty feels you’re up to the task.”

Gabriel paused and then pinned him with this amethyst eyes once more. “Are you up to the task?”

“Oh—oh yes,” Aziraphale rushed to say. He wondered if Crawley would also be assigned to Earth. Perhaps they would run into each other again. That would be...nice.

Gabriel paused and then looked at him, eyes squinting as he seemed to be thinking very hard. “Where’s your sword?”

Aziraphale bit his cheek and cast about for an excuse. “Right, er, I left it in the Garden. I was trying to thwart the demon Crawley, and—”

Gabriel interrupted him. “You’ll need to retrieve it before the garden is decommissioned.”

“Right-o! Will do!” Aziraphale said with a nervous laugh, far too chipper and Gabriel looked at him in confusion.

“I’ll just pop down and get it then…” he said, drifting off and hoping Gabriel would say something so he wouldn’t have to fill the silence.

“You do that,” Gabriel said with a barely contained eye roll before he turned back to the other archangels and fell into discussion about something Aziraphale was surely not supposed to know anything about, lowly Principality that he was.

If it would be his last trip to the Garden, then Aziraphale would try to make the most of it.

* * *

Aziraphale wandered through the orchards of the Garden wondering how long was reasonable to stay on Earth to retrieve a sword. It wasn’t as if being there was a hardship. He liked Earth with it’s bright sun and delightful smells like flowers and grass. He particularly liked the Garden and felt a bit sad that it was set to disappear.

He stopped under a cherry tree, the fruit looked so ripe and he wanted to try one. He’d never had food before but Adam and Eve had seemed to enjoy it. He supposed it wasn’t _ strictly _forbidden. Just one shouldn’t hurt.

The sound of rustling to his right drew his attention away from the tree and he peered around the trunk. “Crawley?” Aziraphale asked, heart kicking in his chest. He was beginning to suspect that this love he held for the Serpent was a different shape than the love he had for all other beings. It was quite concerning and something he’d have to ponder later.

Looking up from his focus on the lilies in front of him, Crawley tilted his head. “Aziraphale wasn’t it?” 

Aziraphale gave him a wavering smile. He’d remembered his name! “Aziraphale, yes.”

Crawley sauntered over, ducking beneath the low branches of the cherry tree. “What are you doing back here?”

“They sent me back down to get my sword.”

“But your sword’s gone,” Crawley pointed out, reaching above him and gathering a few crimson cherries in his hand. He tossed one to Aziraphale who rolled it between his fingers.

“Yes, but they don’t know that.”

“Wait...did you _ lie_?” Crawley gave him a wide-eyed and impressed look, mouth quirking like he was holding back a smile. Aziraphale wished he wouldn’t. He wanted to see that smile again.

“I...er, yes I suppose I did.”

Crawley tossed his head back and laughed, his curls bouncing with the movement. They turned quite a fetching shade in the sunlight.

“You should get out of here, you know,” Aziraphale said quietly. The thought of Crawley disappearing along with the Garden made Aziraphale’s stomach turn to lead.

“What, you chasing me out then? I like it here. Though it’s a bit boring without the humans I suppose,” Crawley said, placing a cherry between his teeth, pulling the stem away. He tossed it to the side and chewed thoughtfully.

“God’s decommissioning the place,” Aziraphale said. “If you’re here when it goes under, I’m not sure what will happen to you. Probably nothing good.”

Crawley raised one eyebrow, his snake eyes taking on a decidedly unholy glint. He spit out the cherry pit, lips stained red from the juice. “You, an angel, warning a demon about potential danger? Is this a trick?”

Aziraphale suddenly realized how ridiculous he must seem. “Hardly seems sporting to let you die on accident.”

Crawley cocked his head and the smile Aziraphale had wished for overtook his face, teeth just as crooked as he remembered, and mischievous eyes crinkling at the corners. It was an expression of real, honest amusement unlike anything Aziraphale had seen before. Certainly not on another angel. “Sporting, eh? Didn’t know angels had a sense of _ sport_. I suppose I can make a ruckus elsewhere. Surely the humans are up to something by now.”

Head twisting slightly, Crawley body caved in on itself until he was that same red-bellied snake from the apple tree. Aziraphale watched as he slithered away before looking down at the cherry in his hand and popping it in his mouth, the burst of sweetness over his tongue entirely new. 

Aziraphale loved it.


	3. Mesopotamia, 3004 BC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon dialogue in this one  
shout out to [@poetic_nonsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_nonsense/pseuds/poetic_nonsense) for giving this a beta

For nearly a thousand years Aziraphale had been sent to Earth again and again for small assignments here and there. The humans were so new and God was still interested in seeing what they’d do with little intervention.

And then the whispers started. Kafziel had heard that God was angry. Haniel said that the archangels were having more meetings. So when Aziraphale was called in to Gabriel’s office he was understandably nervous.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said with another plasticine smile. Aziraphale gave him a weak one in return.

“As humanity’s chosen protector, we have a new assignment for you,” the archangel said, standing up from behind his desk and going to close the door behind Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s heart broke that day. It broke because he thought of all the humans, with all their foibles, drowned beneath the heaving rains, all that potential snuffed out. But it wasn’t Aziraphale’s place to question. Gabriel was certain they deserved their fate. Aziraphale wasn’t so sure, but he would do what he was told, protect who he could, and make sure the human race was not wiped out completely. 

And when Aziraphale walked out of Gabriel’s office towards the staircase that led to Earth, the other angels said nothing. 

So Aziraphale found this _ Noah _ and warned him of the flood. He gave him instruction and then, despite his own orders, stayed and helped him build the boat. An extra pair of hands would not go awry. Aziraphale knew he would be stuck on the boat with Noah and his family until the rains receded. It was his job to keep them safe. 

It took months but the project was finally done and the townspeople were finally growing nervous. The storm clouds had been gathering for days and so too the crowds, staring up at Noah’s boat—well, ark technically. He’d built it to the exact specifications Aziraphale had been tasked with giving him. Heart feeling heavy, Aziraphale came to rest his hands on the fence around the paddock where the animals were kept, two by two just as Aziraphale had said.

A cry from behind him drew his attention and Aziraphale turned, a familiar flash of scarlet hair sending a thrill down his spine. He pushed through the crowds and said, “Oh hello, Crawley!”

Crawley turned around, eyebrows raised in surprise. Aziraphale smiled as Crawley gave him a polite nod. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale faltered. It wasn’t exactly the warm greeting he wanted. He’d just spent the better part of a thousand years trying to forget the way Crawley had made him feel that day on the wall of the Garden. It had been a sort of friendly acceptance that Aziraphale had never experienced before and he thought of it every time he had to interact with the other Principalities, who looked down their noses at him for his smiles and his love of humans. Why was it a demon that seemed to be the first being to appreciate him? What did that say about Aziraphale?

Crawley stepped through the crowds and took up post by his side, eyes glancing up at the boat on the hill. The beginnings of a smile ghosted over his face as he tilted his head and regarded Aziraphale.

“So...giving the mortals a flaming sword. How did that work out for you?” Crawley teased. His hair was less curly these days, tied into loose braids, but it was just as red. He looked like he might be working outside more often, a thin layer of dirt over his face, skin sun-kissed.

“The Almighty has never actually mentioned it again.” Aziraphale said softly, not really wanting to talk about that terrifying moment outside the garden when God _ had _ asked after the sword and Aziraphale had lied to Her _ directly_.

“Probably a good thing,” Crawley said absentmindedly, distracted by the bleating of a sheep. “What’s all this about? Build a big boat and fill it with a traveling zoo?”

“From what I hear,” Aziraphale whispered quickly, despite the fact that he shouldn’t be confiding anything of the like in Crawley, “God’s a bit tetchy. Wiping out the human race. Big storm.”

Crawley’s jaw went slack. “All of them?” he asked incredulously, looking over the crowd.

“Just the locals,” Aziraphale answered, shifting from foot to foot. “I don’t believe the Almighty’s upset with the Chinese. Or the Native Americans. Or the Australians.”

“Yet,” Crawley grumbled, looking back up at the giant boat in the foothills with a troubled expression.

Aziraphale leaned in, disliking that dark look on Crawley’s face. “God’s not actually going to wipe out _ all _ the locals.”

Crawley’s head whipped around so Aziraphale continued, stuttering through his explanation, “I mean, Noah up there. His family, their sons, their wives. They’re all going to be fine.”

“But they’re drowning everybody else?” Crawley asked, looking around and if Aziraphale didn’t know better he’d say he sounded concerned. A demon shouldn’t be concerned with the wellbeing of humans!

Aziraphale looked away and nodded, biting his lip to keep from saying anything incriminating.

Crawley’s expression grew more distraught and he looked out over the sea of people. “Not the kids,” he said and then looked back at Aziraphale who nodded again. “You can’t kill kids.”

When Aziraphale didn’t say anything, Crawley’s mouth folded down and he said, “Well, that’s more the kind of thing you’d expect my lot to do.”

Aziraphale frowned and looked at his hands. Crawley was right but Aziraphale didn’t want to say it. He didn’t _ understand _ why God was doing this and yes, ineffability and all that, but it still hurt to know that, with a thought, the Almighty was just going to...kill everyone. 

“I wish there was something I could do,” Aziraphale admitted, looking after the playing children mournfully. What had they done to deserve this? Be born at the wrong time?

“And what? Try to stop a storm set to flood an entire valley? Not bloody likely,” Crawley scoffed.

“Did you know, Gabriel told me that Almighty’s going to put up a new thing called a ‘rain bow.’ As a promise not to drown everyone again,” Aziraphale said, his voice breaking on the last word.

“How kind,” Crawley said bitterly.

“It is what it is, Crawley. If I had a say I would—” Aziraphale broke off, swallowing sharply. It was too close to questioning. He couldn’t say it.

“You’d what?” Crawley asked, one eyebrow raised. He did look honestly amused, eyes crinkled at the corner, almost affectionate. _Friendly. _“What was it you said? It’s all _ ineffable_. Who knows? Might work out in the end.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Aziraphale said, sagging a bit. He felt exhausted from the last few months, trying so hard to help but knowing it was useless.

Thunder crashed overhead and Aziraphale thought of brimstone wings and black feathers. Crawley had made him feel so safe all those years ago. If he were honest with himself, he was making him feel safe now. Not quite so alone.

“What would you say to an end-of-the-world drink?”

Aziraphale startled, feeling caught out in his thoughts. “It’s not the end of the world,” he responded without thinking. What he should have said was _ yes, please, I’d love to spend more time with you. I need to understand this feeling in my heart. _

“Eh, semantics. C’mon, I owe you one from the Garden. You saved my skin.”

Expecting more mockery, Aziraphale turned toward Crawley and was surprised to see his open expression. This was an honest invitation.

“I suppose it can’t hurt. I’m about to be stuck on a boat for quite a long time,” Aziraphale murmured.

“A boat’s hardly the worst it could be. I’ll be stuck Downstairs,” Crawley said as they wound their way through the crowd. “They’ll make a big hullabaloo about it. Probably throw a party to celebrate all this death.”

Aziraphale cringed. “And you don’t...like these parties?”

“Awful things. Loads of torture. You don’t even want to know what Hell thinks of as a good time.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” Aziraphale said, following Crawley out of the field and into the village where Crawley moved to go into a house. Aziraphale stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You can’t just go into people’s homes.”

“It’s _ my _ home,” Crawley said with that same look from the field, like he was a moment away from laughing.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, standing uncertainly in the doorway as Crawley retrieved a cup and a pitcher.

“Let’s sit outside.”

Crawley let Aziraphale sit on the only crate outside the house. “Wouldn’t want you getting your robes dirty,” he said simply as he dropped to the dirt next to him, back pressed against the wall of the house.

Ignoring the way the gesture made his heart flutter—he did hate getting his clothes dirty— Aziraphale looked down into his cup. He’d never had wine before.

Crawley took a deep drink and Aziraphale followed suit. The bitter liquid was somehow also sweet and it prickled over his tongue, burning his throat slightly. 

Crawley was watching him closely and when Aziraphale cast a surprised look at his cup, the demon laughed. “First time with wine then?”

“I haven’t had occasion to drink it,” Aziraphale admitted, trying it once more. He found it tasted even better the second time. More interesting.

“Right good stuff if you ask me. You drink enough and you go all tingly.”

Aziraphale was feeling fairly tingly but he didn’t think it was the wine at all. Rather it was more likely the fact that he was looking down at Crawley where he was sat in the dirt, plucking at a half-exposed rock absentmindedly, plaited hair falling into his face as he took another sip from his cup.

“You know,” Aziraphale began, belly warmed by the wine, “I’m sure there’s enough space on the ark if, say, a serpent needed to find somewhere to stow away. Might not even be noticed.”

Crawley snapped his head up to look at him, golden eyes sharp. “You mean that?”

Aziraphale bit his lip and looked at his hands. The thought of Crawley being stuck in Hell, maybe torturing or being tortured made his stomach hurt. He couldn’t _ outright _ shelter the demon but he could...give him a nudge.

“I’m just saying. You know. In case you know any. Snakes.”

“Right,” Crawley said, drawing the word out as he blinked slowly. “I’ll let my snake friends know.”

Aziraphale looked for him on the ark, the forty days passed with no sign of a red-bellied snake. On the twenty-fifth day, he rounded a corner and thought he saw a retreating black tail, but when he followed after it, there was nothing there.

It was the middle of the night on the thirty-eighth day with the rain pouring down onto the roof of the ark, a steady thunder of drops, that Aziraphale realized what his disappointment meant. Before the humans had left the Garden, he’d had no frame of reference, he didn’t understand the heat and desperation that came with his thoughts of Crawley. 

And now?

Aziraphale was fairly certain it wasn’t just love he felt for the demon. No, it was the let’s-get-married-and-have-children-if-we-could, spend-all-our-days-together-and-never-be-parted sort of love. A very human love.

He was _ in love_. And he had no idea what that meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted on tumblr here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/188632951654/trip-the-light-fantastic-summerofspock-good)


	4. Golgotha, 33 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to neilman for some dialogue  
beta'ed by poetic_nonsense

Aziraphale made his way through the silent crowd. It felt like everyone was simultaneously holding their breath as Jesus was laid on the cross. A familiar figure, lanky and all in black, caught Aziraphale’s eye and he turned in surprise, his stomach skipping.

Even from a distance Aziraphale could tell Crawley was dressed differently than he used to be. He was wearing the female garb of the region, fabric draped over part of his face as he looked on with a somber expression.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered to Crawley when he came to his side.

Crawley looked at him from the corner of his eye. “I was in the area. What about you? Come to smirk at the poor bugger have you?” 

“Why would I be smirking? Isn’t that your job?” Aziraphale asked, tearing his eyes away from the spectacle at the top of the hill. It was too much to watch.

“Isn’t this part of your lot’s plan?” Crawley said darkly.

“As much as I wish otherwise, I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley,” Aziraphale said tightly, the sound of the hammer ringing out and making his muscles tense with every strike. He hated this. He understood that this was for humanity, truly, but it didn’t hurt any less to see a good man tortured, no matter how many people it saved.

“Oh, I’ve changed it,” Crawley said, casually, and Aziraphale looked at him in confusion, not for the first time thinking how good he looked in the light of the setting sun.

“Changed what?”

“My name,” he said, leaning in to Aziraphale to whisper. The puff of his breath over Aziraphale’s neck forcing him to repress a shiver. “Crawley just wasn’t doing it for me. A bit too squirming-at-your-feetish.”

“Well, you were a snake,” Aziraphale pointed out, facing forward and trying not to be so painfully aware of how close Crawley was to him, his arm pressed into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“It’s Crowley now,” he said in a low voice.

Aziraphale didn’t want to say that he liked it, but he did. It reminded him of extended black wings and clever birds with sharp gazes. 

There was a cry of pain from the cross and both he and Craw—Crowley flinched.

“Did you ever meet him?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes. Seemed a very bright young man,” Crowley said and he actually sounded...sad. “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked even though felt like there were no good answers. He hadn’t been able to get any from Gabriel or the other archangels. There was no reason Crowley would have one.

“He’s a carpenter from Galilee. His travel opportunities are limited.”

Meeting Christ had surely been some sort of demonic assignment, but Aziraphale added this to the list of things about Crowley that made him an absolute wonder, this subtle consideration and kindness. For all Aziraphale knew, Crowley shouldn’t give two figs about God’s son and yet...here he was, looking on the crucifixion as if his own heart was breaking.

Every time Aziraphale felt certain he couldn’t get more attached, something like this happened and he loved Crowley just a little bit more.


	5. Rome, 42 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to our boy neil for some dialogue
> 
> there were two chapters posted today so don't miss ch4!
> 
> beta'ed by poetic_nonsense

The worst part of being in love with a demon was how much Aziraphale missed him. It had only been eight years, a drop in the bucket compared to the thousands of years that used to pass between their run-ins. 

He supposed there were other bad things about being in love with a demon, the guilt, the knowledge it could never be requited because demons didn’t do the whole love business. But this one terrible thing—the constant ache—was really the worst part. That’s what Aziraphale would say if anyone asked him. Not that they would. Goodness, he hoped no one would.

He looked down at the bar and sighed. The lovely serving maid approached, her curly hair tied back in a low bun, and as she smiled at him she said, “Can I get you anything, sir?”

She had a soothing voice and Aziraphale smiled weakly at her. “Do you have any recommendations?” he asked. “I must admit I’m having a rather bad day.”

The woman looked at him sympathetically and said, “I like the plum wine. It’s a bit sweet but it’s strong.”

“I could use something strong.”

There was so much work to do in Rome. After Christ’s death, the apostles were trying to share the gospel, but so many places were reticent to change their beliefs. Aziraphale felt as if he were working overtime just to spread love and peace.

Why did it feel as if all humans wanted to do was start wars?

He hated reporting to the archangels who seemed so ready to reprimand him. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to their opinions. Some wars were praised, others condemned. Aziraphale had started to simply do as he was told since following his instincts and trying to _ help _ got him nothing except frowns and lectures as if Aziraphale were the slowest being in existence.

He sighed again as the woman poured him a glass of plum wine. “Two sesterces.”

“Leave the jug,” he said and she did.

“That’ll be 12 sesterces.”

Aziraphale handed her the coins—and a few extra—and drank deeply of the wine. It was sweet and delicious. He hummed into his cup.

He briefly entertained the idea of running into Crowley, inviting him to dinner, maybe sharing a drink like they did that day before the flood. There was so much Aziraphale wanted to know. What had the demon been up to? What did he think about Roman philosophy? Had he been to the theater?

“Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale spluttered into his cup.

“Steady on,” Crowley said, pounding him once on the back.

“Apologies. You simply startled me,” Aziraphale said, hand to his chest as he cleared his throat.

Crowley grunted and waved down the serving maid. Aziraphale intercepted and asked for a second cup. Crowley had cut his hair short, the curls pressed tight to his head, and he had dark spectacles perched on his nose. Their symmetry emphasized the crookedness of his nose and made his cheekbones look somehow sharper. 

He looked lovely.

Handing Crowley the extra cup, Aziraphale ignored the spark he felt when their fingers brushed. He gestured at the jug in front of him. “We can share.” 

“What are we drinking?” Crowley asked, lifting the jug and sniffing at the rim experimentally. 

“Plum wine.”

“Bit sweet, isn’t it?” Crowley said even as he poured himself a cup.

They fell into silence. 

“In Rome long?” Aziraphale asked, in lieu of anything better to say.

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation,” Crowley answered, smacking his lips. They were stained by the dark liquid and Aziraphale thought wildly if his mouth would taste as sweet as plums. "You?"

“Ah, erm,” Aziraphale stuttered, trying to focus. That was new. Wanting to kiss him and...oh...do loads of other things with him apparently. “Lots to do. What with spreading the gospel.”

“And you’re in a tavern getting drunk because…?” Crowley prompted.

“It’s all been going so poorly. I was supposed to be helping a young woman become a saint and she was stoned to death in the street,” Aziraphale said despondently. He really needed that drink.

Crowley sucked in a sympathetic breath through his teeth. 

“And I was going to go to Petronius’ new restaurant. A bit of a treat really. I heard he does remarkable things to oysters,” Aziraphale said pathetically. And now he was just feeling sorry for himself. “But I was saving it to celebrate completing my assignment and now…”

“Sod needing a celebration,” Crowley said decisively. “You should go. Once in a lifetime opportunity—well, loads of lifetimes, but you get what I mean.”

Crowley poured himself another cup. 

Aziraphale considered that for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“You know,” Crowley began thoughtfully, “I’ve never eaten an oyster.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “Really?” he asked incredulously. “They’re absolutely delightful. Let me tempt you to—”

Crowley turned to him and his smile was equal parts laughter and affection and it did something terrible to Aziraphale’s heart. He was absolutely gone on Crowley, wasn’t he?

“Tempt me? Can’t have you taking my job,” Crowley said, still smiling privately. “Let’s get a leg on then. Nearly lunchtime.”

Aziraphale brightened, embarrassment falling away at the prospect of spending more time with Crowley. Perhaps he just needed to be more straightforward in his overtures of friendship. He knew it was ridiculous, an angel desperate to be friends with a demon. But God, who surely knew his thoughts, had not smote him yet so he must not be straying too far from the righteous path. 

Crowley plucked the jug from the counter and gestured to the exit, waiting a moment for Aziraphale to drain his cup and follow after. The wine had been strong and it made his legs feel loose as they left the dimly lit tavern and stepped into the sunlit street.

The stone building around them reflected the heat of the summer making Aziraphale feel warm and happy. It reminded him of the heat of the desert where he’d spent so many thousand years. It was more damp here and that wouldn’t change but he was adjusting.

Taking a long pull from the jug as they walked, Crowley asked, “Bit weird running into you so soon.”

Aziraphale cast him a nervous glance. Yes, Aziraphale had somewhat desperately wanted to see him, but it wasn't as if he had orchestrated—

“It’s usually at least a few centuries before our assignments line up. When was the last one before Christ?”

“Tower of Babel,” Aziraphale supplied immediately, politely taking the jug when Crowley handed it to him. They hadn’t even had a conversation that time. Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s unmistakable red hair as the demon gave him a cheeky wave before darting off down an alley. It had seemed he was busy and Aziraphale didn’t exactly want to follow after him like a lovestruck fool. Even if he was one.

“Right, right. Nearly a thousand years after the whole flood business. It’s barely been a decade since the last time.”

Aziraphale pointed him to the right so they could head closer to the river. When they reach the restaurant they got a table easily—most likely helped on by Crowley’s powers if Aziraphale was being honest with himself—and it really was a sight to see, Crowley trying oysters for the first time. 

“So you eat it with lemon?” he asked, squeezing the fruit over the top of the halfshell.

“You can. Oh, there are so many things you can do and these really are quite delicious,” Aziraphale slurped back another, enjoying the briny flavor, brightened by the lemon.

Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat and then tipped his head back to let the oyster slip into his mouth. He swallowed and Aziraphale watched his adam’s apple bob, admiring the way his harsh jawline cast a shadow over the vulnerable skin of his neck where just a hint of stubble was making itself known. 

“Interesting,” Crowley said, looking at the empty shell in his hand and smacking his lips, tongue darting out like it was chasing the taste.

Aziraphale swallowed thickly, remembering how not twenty minutes earlier he had been fantasizing about kissing Crowley and perhaps touching his hand or...or…

It was a living thing, this sensation in his chest, growing claws and teeth at it stretched through every part of him. This felt like those teeth. The desire to consume.

Aziraphale focused on the lemons in front of him. 

“Have you seen the new Seneca?” Crowley asked lazily, leaning back in his chair far enough that Aziraphale could see the bottom of his yellow eyes peek out from beneath his glasses. 

“Se—Seneca,” Aziraphale stuttered, pulling himself together. He couldn’t stare at lemons forever. “He’s rather fond of tragedies, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes,” Crowley said, head wavering on his neck like the serpent he was. “Quite tragic.”

“I don’t know if I’m in the mood for tragedy at the moment,” Aziraphale said frankly, mood not entirely buoyed by his time with Crowley.

Crowley put his elbows on the table and pouted. Aziraphale had no idea why he was putting on such a show. “That’s too bad. A showing of Medea tonight. Thought company might be in order.”

Company…

“Are you inviting me to see a play with you?” Aziraphale asked incredulously. Crowley wanted...Crowley wanted to spend time with him?

“Well, you invited me to lunch,” Crowley pointed out. “Don’t see why I can’t return the favor. Been a long time since I’ve seen a show with anyone who had a proper appreciation for the stuff.”

Aziraphale knew the feeling.

“Well, alright.” Aziraphale thought perhaps he should say no. That would be the angelic thing to do. Leave, pretend lunch had been an aberration, and yet, he knew what he wanted and that was to spend more time with Crowley. “Medea, you said?”

“The very same,” Crowley said, lips pulled back in a predatory smile. It wasn’t the same joyful one that Aziraphale remembered from the Garden, but it still sent his pulse racing.

They saw Medea. Aziraphale wept. And even though Aziraphale couldn’t tell if Crowley had any response whatsoever, he did place a comforting hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder before they parted ways outside the auditorium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find this on tumblr [ here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/188722918214/trip-the-light-summerofspock-good-omens-tv)


	6. Britannia, 402 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense
> 
> this is fully written and is just being edited so i should be posting every day or so until complete!

Aziraphale was doing his best. He was always trying to do his best. It was the only way he ever got any recognition from the other angels. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure he wanted it. Most of them hardly even knew what Earth was like, what humans needed. His reports usually fell on deaf ears and when they did listen they reprimanded him for his use of miracles or for being too conspicuous. It was exhausting. 

His most recent assignment was simple, and he had decided to get it over quickly, send back a bare-bones report and then take some time to himself. The local Roman warden had taken to imprisoning women and men he accused of being possessed by a demon. He’d employed priests and doctors to try to “save” these people which usually resulted in their deaths. Aziraphale was tasked with releasing them.

He’d been acting as a soldier-for-hire for years and had enough renown to claim a place in the warden’s castle without causing too much of a stir. Planning to stay a fortnight, Aziraphale resigned himself to being slightly cold and damp and underfed while staying with the lesser warden. It wasn’t ideal, but he would get the job done and then move on. Perhaps to somewhere more posh.

He was picking at some mysterious meat—beef, supposedly, but Aziraphale had a feeling it was some sort of rodent—when the warden’s favorite priest—though the man hardly deserved the word what with his favored grimoires being decidedly pagan—piped up and began to talk about their latest victim. Aziraphale grit his teeth. Trying to rid the world of evil was all well and good, but not at the cost of innocents.

“You should see his eyes, sir. Pupils like slits. Otherworldly.”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. It had been over a century since he had seen Crowley and the mere thought of it sent his stomach into fits. He shook himself. While eyes like that surely fit the description, he couldn’t understand why the demon would willingly stay and submit to these surely hamfisted attempts at exorcism. It couldn’t possibly be him.

Another man who Aziraphale didn’t recognize but assumed was in the Warden Caecilius’ employ said, “And his hair. Clearly the mark of the devil. Better suited on a woman if you ask me. Surely some foul tempter, set to lure women into his bed.”

“But you have it in hand? You’re driving the demon out of him?” Caecilius asked, eyes shining in a way that Aziraphale did _ not _ like.

“We’re doing our best, sir.”

Warden Caecilius hummed in satisfaction. “I’d like to see your work tomorrow.”

The priest bowed his head. “Of course, sir.”

Aziraphale would need to make his move tonight then. His stomach squirmed at the possibility that this was Crowley. He tried to push down the hope that came with the thought. He shouldn’t be _ hoping _ that Crowley was captured just because he wanted to see him. He loved him and wanting him to be here was an exceedingly selfish sort of thought.

Later that night, when most of the castle was drunk or asleep, Aziraphale made his way through the cold corridors and into the lower levels of the eastern keep where he knew the ‘possessed’ were kept for ‘treatment.’

With a brief miracle to undo the lock, Aziraphale slipped into the dirty cell and stopped in his tracks. He’d recognize that crimson hair anywhere.

Stripped to his waist, Crowley was slumped against the damp stone wall, shoulder-length hair matted to his head with dirt. There were burns etched down his chest in uneven stripes, the red marks stark against his pale skin. Aziraphale couldn’t figure out how he could even be injured. Demons—much like angels—were hard to injure unless it was with…

Were the priests using holy instruments? How could they have possibly gotten their hands on those?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said, voice too loud in the confined space. Crowley reared back and his eyes flew open, nostrils flaring.

“Ziraphale!” he slurred with a sloppy grin. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. Even like this, Crowley wouldn’t give up his dramatic flair apparently. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“What happened here?” Aziraphale said, flitting to Crowley’s side as his stomach tied itself up in sympathetic knots. The demon was _ hurt _ and Aziraphale hated it.

“‘S not what it looks like,” Crowley insisted as he tugged at his chains and hissed in pain.

Aziraphale turned his attention to the manacles and realized they were blessed, the metal curling around Crowley’s wrist sinking deeper every time he moved, raising steaming welts beneath them. Well, those would need to be the first to go. Snapping his fingers, the chains fell away and Aziraphale leaned forward to help Crowley to his feet. “It _ looks _ like you’ve been chained up and tortured with holy weapons.”

“Alright maybe it is what it looks like,” Crowley admitted, leaning into Aziraphale. His body was warm and solid under Aziraphale’s hands. “I was just trying to steal a grimoire. Shouldn’t have ended up like this, you know.”

Ignoring his slurred explanations, Aziraphale pulled him closer to his side. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.” _ Somewhere not here _.

Aziraphale popped them to the countryside where he kept a cottage. It was a place where he found his respite between assignments and where no one bothered him for the most part.

Crowley took one look at it and huffed. “Quaint.”

Aziraphale didn’t have it in him to say anything biting back. “Get inside, you,” he admonished, helping Crowley through the door. He miracled a bed—his cottage didn’t have much furniture, just a single chair so he could sit comfortably at the table while he worked through his manuscripts—and set Crowley on it, steadily lowering him so he could rest. The demon hissed when his back came in contact with the blanket and Aziraphale hurriedly sat him up again. There were streaks of burns down his back, a set to match his chest.

“What happened?” Aziraphale whispered again, at a loss as to how to help.

“Would you believe if I said diluted Holy water?”

Aziraphale stomach twisted in horror.

“Can you—can you heal?”

Crowley hesitated and then said carefully, “If I do, it’ll take a lot out of me.”

Aziraphale frowned, not sure what that meant.

“I will pass out,” Crowley explained, emphasizing each word like Aziraphale was an _ idiot _. “And while I am passed out I will be vulnerable. And being vulnerable while being a demon isn’t exactly a solid plan. Or did you not just yank me off a wall where I’d been kept for weeks like a demonic plaything?”

“I can protect you,” Aziraphale said before he thought better of it. It felt too much like a confession. 

Crowley looked at him, expression flat and unreadable.

“It’s just...I—I’m sure it would be awfully inconvenient to have to stay here and _ wait _ to heal. It could take weeks,” Aziraphale said, trying to explain his offer to himself as much as to Crowley. Of course, he _ knew _why he had offered and it was the little ball of light in his chest that had burst into being along the wall in Eden and glowed even brighter when Crowley was near. It was glowing something fierce at the moment.

Crowley hummed dubiously. “Not going to smite me while I’m out?”

“If I were going to smite you, wouldn’t I have done it while you were chained to a wall?”

“Fair point.”

“Just do it. I’ll watch over you.”

“My own personal guardian angel,” Crowley said with a smirk. And then, without so much as a by your leave, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed against the pillows, clearly unconscious, skin now unblemished. He was still a bit dirty but at least he was healed.

Aziraphale wondered if it would be too personal to wash him. Probably, he thought, pushing the idea away, the image of Crowley waking up while Aziraphale rubbed him down with a wet rag a little too much for his angelic mind to bear.

Instead, he sat the demon up and tugged a spare tunic over his head. It was too big and a bit out of fashion, but covering up Crowley’s chest made something in Aziraphale settle. 

Not wanting to leave Crowley, but knowing it would be a overly obsessive to keep vigil at his bedside, Aziraphale retreated to the chair on the far side of the room and resigned himself to catching up on reading some of the books and scrolls he had collected over the last few centuries.

Without meaning to, Aziraphale peeked up over his papers and looked at Crowley where he was stretched on the bed, his body obscured by Aziraphale’s larger clothes. He looked strange in the golden creams that Aziraphale favored, the absence of his normal black made him seem to glow. Aziraphale thought back to the feeling of Crowley’s skin under his hands as the demon shook with the effort of walking. Even with his filthy skin and hair, Crowley was beautiful. Aziraphale loved his crooked nose and pointy teeth, the way his eyes flashed gold in candlelight. Perhaps it would have been easier if Crowley were simply nice to look at—though Aziraphale secretly thought it might be just his own preference that made Crowley so hard to look away from—no, when Aziraphale got lost in his thoughts it was the memory of Eden that he always came back to, the warm smell of smoke as Crowley opened his wing and held it over his head. That unselfconscious smile like Aziraphale’s existence delighted him. That delight had never wavered, not in the four millennia they had known each other.

Aziraphale was certain that he shouldn’t be in love with a demon. Yes, perhaps he could have gotten away with just loving him. That love thy enemy stuff that had come out in the Bible and still seemed to be quite unpopular with the masses. Humans much preferred hating the enemy.

But this all encompassing feeling, this joy Aziraphale felt, was certainly more than any sort of love he should have in his heart. 

He sighed, his long breath rustling the paper in front of him as he closed his eyes. He had held this feeling in his heart for over four thousand years and it had made no difference. He could love Crowley until the end times, but, as unconventionally kind as Crowley could be, he was a demon and Aziraphale didn't think he could ever love him back.

And even if he could, surely Crowley would choose someone more deserving of his affections than Aziraphale.

Crowley slept for ten days. At first, Aziraphale was certain he would wake within a day, but a day became two and then three and Aziraphale started to get nervous. He puttered around his one-room cottage, desperate for something to occupy him. He usually didn’t stay inside for quite so long, but he had promised Crowley and the thought of him waking up alone made Aziraphale feel guilty.

It was the middle of the night with the fire going, the smell of smoke heavy in the air when Crowley sucked in a deep breath and shot upright. Aziraphale knocked over his atramentum in surprise.

Scowling, he miracled the broken pot back onto his desk and stood.

Crowley looked down at the shirt he was wearing and plucked at the fabric. “Is this _ yours _?”

“I wasn’t going to leave you half-naked for goodness knows how long,” Aziraphale said primly, folding his hands in front of himself when Crowley fixed him with a look that made his face flame.

“Couldn’t stand the sight of my luscious body then?” Crowley asked, passing a hand over his hair and with it all the dirt disappeared, curls forming in the wake of his power. “Worried you might be...tempted?”

Crowley pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth and raised his eyebrows, giving him a leer.

“Please, you’re filthy.” Aziraphale huffed and rolled his eyes, pushing away the spike of fear that Crowley would know how right he was.

“That’s not a no,” Crowley pointed out with another flash of tongue before levering himself out of bed and snapping his fingers. Aziraphale’s long shirt disappeared, replaced by a tight black tunic, roped in at the waist and snake embroidery around the wrists.

“Best be off. Downstairs’ll start wondering what I’ve been up to,” Crowley said, rolling his shoulders as if they were stiff.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, biting his lip to hide his disappointment. Even silent and sleeping, Crowley’s presence had alleviated some of the loneliness that had plagued Aziraphale over his last century on Earth. He hadn’t been recalled to Heaven in quite some time and it was difficult to spend so much time alone.

“I’ll be sure to look you up next time I’m in the area.”

And with that, Crowley was gone.


	7. Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> neilman credit for some dialogue as repurposed here  
beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense

Aziraphale stomped through the mud and tried very hard to silence the voice in his head complaining about the filthy conditions he was forced to work in. King Arthur was all well and good and yes, Christianity was booming, he was getting commendations left and right, but England was dank and damp and there was no sunshine and Aziraphale was getting no rest whatsoever.

Suppressing a sigh, he continued his trek through the mud. He was here for a reason. Parley with the Black Knight, King Arthur’s newest and most evil foe.

He cleared his throat and put on his best Knight Voice. “I, Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, am here to speak to the Black Knight.”

The fog filling the forest was doing nothing for Aziraphale’s mood and when a man with long hair appeared in the mist, he felt a bit of relief. Perhaps this would be over faster than he had anticipated and he could go back to the castle and sit with a warm fire and a nice meal. “Oh right, hello,” Aziraphale said with a polite smile. “I was hoping to meet with the Black Knight?”

The grisly henchman stared at him, axe half-raised. Aziraphale shifted his weight on his feet feeling strange and damp and uncomfortable. Whoever invented chainmail was surely a sadist.

The sucking sound of someone walking through mud accompanied the clink of metal plates as a man in black armor appeared before him. “You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one. But you have found your death,” a gravelly voice said from within the black helm.

That voice, pathetically disguised as it was, was achingly familiar.

“Crowley? Is that you?”

Crowley flipped up his visor, revealing his amber eyes. He looked as sweaty and uncomfortable as Aziraphale felt. “Argh, why is it always you?”

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean,” Aziraphale said, bristling at Crowley’s implied irritation. He _liked_ running into Crowley and didn't particularly enjoy the implication that Crowley _didn't_.

One of Crowley’s lackeys grunted and Crowley waved them off. “It’s alright, lads. I know him. He’s alright.”

The rest of the group faded back into the forest as Crowley turned back to him. “What the deuce are you doing here?”

“I’m working for King Arthur. What are _ you _ doing here?” Aziraphale demanded, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. He _was_ very uncomfortable.

“I’m here spreading foment.” Crowley fidgeted in his armor and his sword clinked against his thigh.

“What is that? Some kind of porridge?” Aziraphale asked, nose wrinkling.

Crowley groaned. “No. You know. I’m fomenting dissent and discord. King Arthur and your lot’ve been spreading too much peace and tranquility in the land so I’m here...you know, fomenting.”

Crowley’s armor creaked as he tried to gesticulate in his normal bombastic fashion. He looked down at his gauntlets as if betrayed by their audacity to make any noise whatsoever.

“Do you mean to say that I’ve been here for _ years _ in this dismal place trying to bring peace to Wessex and _ you_,” Aziraphale said, voice full of accusation, “have been undoing all my hard work?”

“I could say the same to you!” Crowley protested. 

Aziraphale glared at him. He just wanted to go home. This was ridiculous.

“So...we’re both working very hard in damp places and just canceling each other out,” Crowley said thoughtfully. “Don’t you think it’d be easier if we both stayed home?”

Aziraphale scowled. “What are you trying to say?”

“It _ would _ be easier if we just sent messages back to our head offices saying we’d done everything they’d asked for, wouldn’t it?”

“But that would be lying!” Aziraphale said, aghast, a gut reaction that he realized almost immediately was very silly. It wasn't as if he hadn't lied to Head Office before.

Crowley frowned. “Eh, possibly? But the end result would be the same. Cancel each other out.”

“But, my dear fellow! Well, they’d check,” Aziraphale protested weakly. “They’d check wouldn’t they?”

Aziraphale pictured Gabriel and Michael during his centennial reviews, the barely there distracted expressions while they casually flipped through his file. Too many miracles here, good job with saving souls there. To the archangels, Aziraphale was the simpleton assigned to Earth. Not enough brains in his head to do anything but follow orders.

Crowley might be...Crowley might be right.

“Our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from earth,” Crowley continued, echoing Aziraphale’s own thoughts. “As long as they get the paperwork, they seem happy enough. As long as you’re being seen to be doing _something_. Every now and again.”

Aziraphale hesitated. He wasn’t sure he liked how much he agreed with Crowley. “No! It’s—we’re not having this conversation right now.”

“Well, when do you want to have it?”

Aziraphale growled in frustration. 

“Just—not here.” He needed time to think and they needed to have this conversation alone.

“Send you a letter then? Courtesy of the Black Knight?” Crowley said and even though Aziraphale couldn’t see his mouth he could picture the teasing smile that was surely there. Oh, he _wanted_ to see his mouth. 

Fidgeting and trying not to think too hard about Crowley's mouth, Aziraphale glanced behind him at his squire who seemed well-distracted by the horse he had been tasked with caring for. 

“There’s a glen. About a mile south of here. Meet me there tonight. Alone,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley stared at him for a moment and then snapped his visor shut. “Tonight then.”

Aziraphale clomped back through the mud, heart racing. He’d just set up a rendezvous with the enemy. And he should not be so thrilled by it.

When he arrived at the glen, Crowley was already waiting for him, no longer in armor, only black mail under a plain black tunic, surcoat shrugged over his slim shoulders making him look like a shadow. The place was more romantic than Aziraphale remembered, the moonlight pooling over the stones and rippling across the small pond in silver waves. Everything smelled like moss and clean earth. 

“So,” Aziraphale said, stepping out from between the trees. “You have a proposal.”

“Didn’t think you’d go in for it really,” Crowley admitted, turning to face him, starlight casting half his face in shadow. “But, yeah.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Crowley to continue.

“Look, it’s just that we keep running into each other. Jobs overlapping and all. Seems a bit of a waste to go through all the effort of just cancelling each other out don’t you think?”

“And your suggestion is…”

“That we stay out of each others’ way, lend a hand if we have to…” Crowley trailed off and looked at Aziraphale meaningfully.

“What do you mean, lend a hand?”

“Like this King Arthur business, you stop doing such a bloody good job and I’ll slow down on the evil stuff. But let’s say like in Brittannia! With the grimoires,” Crowley said.

“What about the grimoires?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly. He didn’t like to think about finding Crowley in that dank place with burns all over his pale skin.

“I was supposed to steal them and you were supposed to release the poor buggers being tortured. It would have been easy enough for you to do both.”

“Are you suggesting I do the work of the Devil?” Aziraphale hissed.

“I’ll be doing Heavenly work!” Crowley protested. Then he grimaced. “It’ll all come out in the wash.”

Aziraphale looked heavenward and took a deep breath. “Sounds like quite the Arrangement.”

Crowley shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“We’ll have to stay in touch, you know. Keep our stories straight.” While that was true, Aziraphale knew he was twisting this to suit his own desires. If they were working together then they’d see each other more often. And Aziraphale wanted that more than he’d like to admit.

“Fine by me,” Crowley said carelessly. “Long as you don’t change your mind and get all smite-y.”

Aziraphale scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Hardly likely at this point.”

“Well then, I suppose we have a deal.”

“I suppose we do,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley stepped closer to him, the long swing of his black surcoat mesmerizing in the light of the moon. Aziraphale forced himself to look at Crowley’s face and _ not at his mouth_.

Sticking out his hand, Crowley looked at him expectantly and Aziraphale took it with only a moment’s hesitation. If he let his hand linger a bit too long, he didn’t think Crowley noticed.


	8. The Globe Theater, 1601 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense  
some repurposed dialogue

Aziraphale rolled a grape in his hand before popping it in his mouth. He loved grapes. A perfect mixture of tart and sweet and so, so satisfying. He was glad they were being sold at the theater these days.

He felt Crowley before he saw him. Over the years Aziraphale had gotten...more attuned so to speak. He could feel the unique buzz of Crowley’s brand of evil from a dozen yards at least. 

“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here,” Crowley drawled, coming up to his shoulder. “Or is this just revenge for when I made you see Medea?”

“Revenge,” Aziraphale scoffed. “Of course not. I just expected it to be a bit more...popular. Shakespeare usually is!”

Crowley groaned. He looked ridiculous lately with that stupid goatee. Even so, it did nothing to stop Aziraphale wanting to kiss him silly. “This is one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, isn’t it,” Crowley asked. He groaned. “No _ wonder _ nobody’s here.”

Drawn by Crowley’s dramatics, Shakespeare skipped over to them, looking a bit desperate. Without thinking, Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s arm and shushed him. 

“Prithee, gentles,” Shakespeare began with a slight bow that barely contained his manic energy. “Might I request a small favor? Could you, in your role as the audience, give us more to work with?”

“You mean like when the ghost of his father came on and I said ‘he’s behind you!’” Aziraphale asked, excited at the opportunity to participate and practically glowing with joy now that Crowley was finally beside him again. He had asked him here for a more business-related reason but Crowley wasn’t too far off, he also wanted Crowley to see this particular show. The poetry was beautiful. And he truly doubted, if he sent Crowley a note asking him to the theater because Aziraphale thought _ he would like it_, that Crowley would have come at all. 

“Yes, more of that,” Shakespeare said gratefully before directing Hamlet to begin again.

The actor began speaking and Aziraphale did his best to cheer him on. As Hamlet slid back into the rhythm of his monologue, Crowley began to circle around Aziraphale.

“So if it’s not revenge via the illustrious Bard, what _ do _ you want?” Crowley asked when the rest of the sparse theatergoers were finally focused on the stage.

“What if I said I just wanted your company?” Aziraphale challenged and even though it was true he knew Crowley would read it as one of the same sarcastic barbs they often flung at each other.

Sure enough, the demon raised one eyebrow and grinned. “And why would you want that?” Crowley asked, leaning forward to hiss the question in Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, ignoring the gooseflesh rising on his arms, well hidden by the long sleeves of his shirt. “Stop that, you wicked thing,” he admonished, pointedly facing forward as his cheeks went hot.

“Stop what?” Crowley said, even quieter and Aziraphale had no idea what had gotten into him. Yes, they often teased each other but Crowley was in rare form, clearly delighting in Aziraphale’s blustering responses.

“You are up to no good,” Aziraphale said archly, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, catching the spread of Crowley’s shark-tooth smile.

“Obviously. You’re up to good, I take it? Lots of good deeds?” Crowley retorted, drawing out the words so that Aziraphale had no doubt he was being mocked.

“No rest for the—well, good,” Aziraphale admitted, trying to stay still as Crowley drew even closer to him. He felt trapped and he had to remind himself to breathe through the racing of his heart. “I have to be in Edinburgh by the end of the week. A couple blessings to do. A minor miracle to perform. I wanted you to know in case...”

“What? In case our assignments line up? They usually do these days, don’t they?” Crowley said thoughtfully. Their arms brushed as they leaned closer to each other, speaking in low tones. What would Crowley do if he turned and kissed him? Most likely laugh in his face. Rolling one of the grapes between his fingers, Aziraphale focused on the smooth texture of the skin to distract himself. “I suppose it won’t surprise you to know that I’m meant to be heading to Edinburgh too this week. Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle.”

“Doesn’t sound like hard work,” Aziraphale replied. “Do you have to ride a horse? I’m going to have to.”

“Hard on the buttocks, horses,” Crowley said with a grimace.

“Exactly!” Aziraphale cried and someone coughed behind him, reminding him that they were, in fact, in public.

Aziraphale shuffled closer and tried to whisper. “If our assignments really are both in Edinburgh, perhaps we can…”

Crowley stared at him with raised eyebrows and a barely-there smile.

Aziraphale sighed. “You know...the Arrangement.”

Crowley _ did _smile then, one of those genuine ones, thin lips pulled back to reveal his incisors. He looked so beautifully pleased. “Oh angel, I thought you’d never ask.”

Neck feeling very hot, Aziraphale looked away. Crowley ducked closer, his chest pressed flush against Aziraphale’s arm as he ducked down to ask directly into Aziraphale’s ear, a hot whisper, “Flip you for it?” 

He pulled out a coin and Aziraphale waved him off.

“Not this again. You’re always _ cheating_. Besides, you owe me. From Belfast,” Aziraphale reminded him, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

Crowley let out a long breath through his nose. “Fine, Edinburgh, on me.”

“I’d like to stay here and see if I can, er, encourage some _ interest _ in Hamlet.”

Crowley snorted.

“What? Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it isn’t fine theater,” Aziraphale said archly, rubbing his hand down his doublet, trying to still his nerves. Crowley had such an awful effect on him.

“Alright, alright,” Crowley said. “No need to get huffy. I’ll spread the word too. Help out a bit.”

The smile that overtook Aziraphale’s face belied only a shred of the joy he felt in his heart. “Oh—really?” Aziraphale breathed, putting a thankful hand on Crowley’s arm.

Crowley growled and shook him off. “I still prefer the funny ones.”

Aziraphale watched his retreating back for a moment and then turned back to the play.


	9. Paris, 1793

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense  
as always, credit to mr. gaiman for some dialogue

The Frenchman—Jean Claude apparently—seemed very proud of the fact he was about to chop off Aziraphale’s head. It all sounded quite unpleasant. Aziraphale had never been decapitated before and it wasn’t exactly on his list of to-do’s. But he was  _ stuck here _ .

Heaven had barely spared him a glance for nearly six thousand years and then, out of nowhere, a reprimand! When he’d called up the Office to lodge a complaint, they reminded him that he’d banked one million nonessential miracles since the death of Christ, which they considered unacceptable.

He wondered if they’d consider miracling himself out of a dungeon “essential.” Most likely not. They hardly considered his post essential at all. They certainly didn’t think Aziraphale himself was essential. That was dreadfully clear.

Aziraphale sighed at the wet snick of the guillotine blade cutting through another neck.

“You people are absolute animals,” Aziraphale said with disgust, turning back to the Frenchman who froze without warning, limbs cocked up in a very awkward position.

Aziraphale blinked, trying to figure out what was happening, just as a familiar voice drawled behind him, “Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Aziraphale. Only humans do that.”

Heart racketing in his chest, Aziraphale whirled around. “Crowley!” 

Oh it had been too damned long.

Just the sight of Crowley lounged in his typical insouciant manner on the bench in the corner of the room was enough to make the butterflies in Aziraphale’s stomach flutter. One of his feet was kicked up on the iron bars of the cell and he looked particularly irritated at Aziraphale. Which wasn’t entirely new. The more time they had spent together the more fights they had. Well, it was really more bickering. But that was because Crowley sometimes had the most appalling tastes—

“Imagine my surprise, when I pop over to the Continent to check in on this whole  _ revolution _ business and hear about some foppish British aristo just begging for his head to be severed. S’not like you, letting yourself be holed up in dirty, damp places.”

Normally, Aziraphale would agree, but it wasn’t his fault. Not really! “Gabriel said I’d been performing too many frivolous miracles. I got a very strongly worded note. I hardly thought they kept track. Apparently, a million nonessential miracles was the tipping point.”

“What? A _ million _ ? This year?” Crowley asked incredulously, mouth dropping open like he wanted to catch flies.

“No!” Aziraphale cried. “Of course not. Over the last two thousand years.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. _Adorable_. “Well, that’s not that many. What’s that then? About…”

“One miracle a day, yes,” Aziraphale answered. In a fit of pique he had, in fact, done the math. Heaven had no idea what Earth was like.

“Your lot are a bunch of sticklers, aren’t they?”

“Usually they’re quite useless,” Aziraphale admitted, settling into his chair. His chains clinked against his feet. “Heaven is full of the most incompetent beings you’ve ever met. I’m sure they’d give Hell a run for their money.”

Crowley scoffed. “Never thought I’d hear you badmouth Head Office.”

“You sit in on my next centennial review and then tell me what you think. Not a single archangel has been on Earth since before the Crusades. They have no  _ idea _ what it’s like. And yet they think they can criticize my work. Ridiculous.”

Crowley stared at him for a moment and then threw his head back with a bark of laughter. “You know, I think I like when you let loose like this. What else? Sounds like you’ve got a few complaints stored up. Lay it on me.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a long-suffering look. He didn’t need to seem quite so pleased about Aziraphale’s issues with Heaven. “Perhaps another time,” he said dismissively, though Crowley hardly looked inclined to let it go. “What are you here for anyway?”

“Wanted to see what the fuss was about. I’ve gotten a commendation for this,” Crowley said gesturing at the small, barred window that let the light in, just as the guillotine fell again.

Aziraphale stood abruptly, so distracted by the twist in his stomach that he hardly noticed the chains rattling. “So all this is your demonic work?”

It seemed so out of character! Crowley did all sorts of awful things, but it was usually tempting people to drink and steal and make roads slightly pitted so carriage rides were more uncomfortable. 

“No! The humans thought it up themselves!” Crowley insisted, sounding almost offended. “Not that Downstairs needed to know that. Did Heaven send you here to do some thwarting? You’d think they’d let up on the miracles thing if you’re doing  _ work _ .”

Aziraphale looked at his feet.

“That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“If you must know, I got peckish,” Aziraphale said, glancing up at Crowley through his lashes. He looked much better than he had during Elizabeth’s reign, much more posh, clean shaven with a tight coat that made him look...

“Peckish?” Crowley repeated dubiously, eyebrows creeping up his forehead.

“Well, it was the crepes,” Aziraphale said, the words flooding from his mouth. He needed to get better at lying, but sometimes Crowley looked at him a certain way and he found the truth coming out against his will. “You can’t get decent ones anywhere but Paris.”

Crowley stared at him, jaw working as if he was trying to speak, but no sound would come out. 

“And the brioche,” Aziraphale admitted, taking his seat again. Crowley would never let him live this down.

“So you just popped across the channel during a revolution because you wanted something to nibble? Dressed like that?”

“I have  _ standards _ .”

Crowley dropped his head back against the wall of the cell and groaned in frustration. “What you have is no sense in that pretty little head of yours.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. He knew Crowley wasn’t actually complimenting him but...“Would you please…” he began, holding up his manacled hands.

He waited for a long moment before Crowley snapped his fingers and the chains fell away. 

“I suppose I’m lucky you were in the area. I quite expected to be discorporated,” Aziraphale said, trying his best to convey gratitude. There was so much of it that he felt certain he would never do it justice. “Perhaps I could buy you lunch? As a thank you. It really is lovely to see you. As always.”

Oh, he was rambling. He clamped his mouth shut and willed himself to look nonchalant. Perhaps Crowley was feeling particularly dense that day and wouldn’t read too much into Aziraphale’s words. Crowley didn’t need to know that Aziraphale was picturing pushing him up against the filthy wall behind him just to taste his mouth and see if he still smelled like brimstone and apple trees. It was just lunch. Platonic, friendly, happy lunch.

Crowley looked at him for a long moment and then cocked his head. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he was looking at and he pushed down the urge to fidget.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley began and then he stopped, jaw ticking. The silence felt stretched, ready to snap under the smallest pressure, and then Crowley unceremoniously broke it by taking to his feet. “Alright. Yeah. Lunch. But we’re not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

He waved his hand over Aziraphale, the telltale prickle of power accompanying the sensation of Aziraphale’s clothes being switched out. It felt like a caress and Aziraphale had to very pointedly focus on his breathing.

Aziraphale looked down and saw himself in a Revolutionary’s uniform. He sighed. It would have to do.

“Crepes then?” Crowley said as he offered him his arm.

Aziraphale took it.


	10. Hyde Park, 1851

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betaed by @poetic_nonsense  
ngl this is my favorite chapter
> 
> i posted twice today so don't miss ch 9

The Crystal Palace towered above them and Aziraphale couldn’t contain his awe. The sheer number of _ people_, the inventions. This Great Exhibition was truly a marvel.

“Would you look at that?” Crowley said quietly, tilting his head back to look up at the telescope that had more than one person in the crowd speechless. 

Aziraphale stared at him, caught up in the look of open fascination in his face. It was a rare thing these days, seeing Crowley with his guard down. Aziraphale often thought back on that first meeting in the garden, Crowley’s beautifully genuine expression. It was what had made Aziraphale notice him in the first place. What had caught his heart so immediately.

Crowley turned back to him, mouth caught up in the middle of a word when he paused and frowned. “Aziraphale? Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, busying himself with his gloves as he tucked them into his pocket. “You were discussing the telescope.”

Raising one eyebrow, Crowley shook his head and looked back up at the giant thing. 

“It is a marvel,” Aziraphale admitted, forcing himself to look away from Crowley and at the trophy telescope itself. “If only the food were up to the same standard.”

Crowley laughed. “All the baubles of human genius on display and you’re worried about the cheese sandwiches.”

“They are _ dry_, Crowley,” Aziraphale groused. Crowley really had no judgment when it came to the quality of a meal. Aziraphale had once seen him eat the rind of a melon and when Aziraphale mentioned that wasn’t the edible part, Crowley had shrugged and said _ I suppose it was a little bitter_.

A little bitter!

“Well, it just so happens that I’ve arranged for something better,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s arm and steering him towards the exit. 

“What does that mean?” Aziraphale asked as he tripped over his feet to keep up with Crowley. His hand felt hot on Aziraphale’s inner arm, presence undeniable even through the fabric of his jacket.

“A picnic,” Crowley said, popping every syllable with his tongue. “Grapes, and olives, and _ good _ cheese with jam and fresh bread. Even got some of those dates you like so much.”

Aziraphale thought his knees might give way from under him as he froze to the spot. Crowley tugged at his arm ineffectually and then turned back to him. “C’mon, we’ll have a bite to eat and then you can come back and track down all your whosits and whatsits.”

Managing to shake himself back into motion, Aziraphale followed after Crowley until they reached the lawn where groups of people had had similar ideas, spread out across gingham blankets, eating and drinking as they laughed and chattered about the Exhibition. Crowley led him to a free patch of grass where a blanket appeared followed by food after food, wine bottle sparkling in the summer sun.

“Crowley, this is lovely,” Aziraphale said, taking his seat next to the demon who had somehow already managed to sprawl over far more than half of the blanket. 

“Some of us like to be prepared, angel,” he crowed, sipping at his wine like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

Feeling a bit speechless, Aziraphale sipped at his own drink. Crowley had taken to calling him _ angel _ when they were alone, which they were most of the time they spent together, and the endearment did all manner of ridiculous things to Aziraphale’s heart. Though Crowley didn’t mean it at as endearment. Certainly. Aziraphale was really trying his best to keep his feelings under control, but the more time he spent with Crowley, the closer they came to the surface. They met at restaurants and saw shows and sometimes Crowley would put his gloved hand on Aziraphale’s arm to direct his attention to something and it all meant that Aziraphale was one step closer to being entirely hopeless.

“So,” Crowley began, “Did you have anything you wanted to discuss or did you just miss me?”

Aziraphale nearly choked on the half-chewed date that was in his mouth. Turning to look at him with a lackadaisical grin, Crowley froze when he saw his face.

“What? No...I mean, yes,” Aziraphale stuttered, blushing. Crowley was peering at him in a most absurd way, like Aziraphale was a tin can he was in the midst of opening. With nowhere else to look, Aziraphale stared at the place where Crowley’s hand had dug itself into the loose fabric of the blanket they were sat on, certain his own face had his feelings writ large across it.

“What?” Crowley croaked, sitting up abruptly. Aziraphale belatedly realized what he had admitted to.

“No! I mean, this is business. Of course. Not that I _ don’t _miss you all the time. I mean! Sometimes! I—”

Aziraphale wanted to stuff the entire wedge of leicester in his mouth just to shut himself up.

Knocking over his wine glass, Crowely fumbled himself into a standing position. “I’ve—I’ve forgot I had...er...speaking of business!” Crowley took a step back and nearly fell over when his foot tangled in the black and white gingham. “I’ve got some! Business, that is. Across town.”

Aziraphale tried to stand up and help him but Crowley waved him off. “No, no,” he said and then he shook his head. “No, no, no. You stay here! Enjoy yourself! It is...for you.”

Crowley looked like he might be about to brain himself with the wine bottle so Aziraphale sat back down and watched him zip off down the hill, leaving Aziraphale feeling utterly wretched. Aziraphale had put his foot in his mouth and he knew with sickening certainty that now Crowley...for better or for worse, Crowley _ knew_.


	11. St. James' Park, 1862

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by poetic_nonsense  
s/o to neilman for some dialogue

Aziraphale got the note to meet Crowley at St. James’ and scowled. It appeared on his desk on a random Thursday, Crowley's half-intelligble scratchings across the back immediately recognizable. _To Aziraphale_. A clandestine meeting was hardly necessary. Now that they were both in London semi-permanently, they usually met once a month regardless. The picnic incident had never been mentioned again and Aziraphale was thanking his stars for it. How utterly mortifying. Sometimes he thought he caught Crowley staring at him as if he had a growth on his face, but it was difficult to tell what with Crowley's sunglasses.

Despite Aziraphale’s confusion over Crowley’s sudden need to set up a secret rendezvous, he went to meet the demon—of course he did—and found Crowley staring out over the duck pond in St. James' looking very nervous and acting very typically overdramatic. Aziraphale took off his hat and started feeding the ducks.

“I’ve been thinking,” Crowley began. “About us.” 

Aziraphale nearly dropped his hat in the water. What was Crowley talking about? He wasn’t going to bring up the picnic incident _ now, _was he?

Not noticing the fact that Aziraphale’s very nice hat had nearly taken an untimely dive, Crowley continued, “We have a lot in common. You and me. But what if it all goes wrong? I need you to do something for me.” 

Aziraphale’s heart started up again. This was about something different. Not about Aziraphale’s feelings. Thank goodness.

“We already have the Arrangement, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, tossing more crumbs to the ducks. “Is there a particular reason you’re being like this?”

“Like what?” Crowley demanded, finally looking at him. 

“So dramatic. If you need something, you can just ask.”

“This isn’t like everything else. This is serious. For if it all goes pear-shaped.”

“I like pears,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. It wasn’t the time of year for them, but maybe he could track some down...

“For if it all goes wrong,” Crowley said forcefully, drawing Aziraphale back to the conversation. “I want insurance.”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, shaking out his hat before putting it back on.

“I wrote it down. Walls have ears..." Crowley drifted off, mumbling to himself about ducks for whatever reason.

Ignoring his rambling—he really was nervous—Aziraphale opened the note and gasped. “Out of the question!”

_ Holy water_. The words felt inked into his mind, each line of Crowley’s messy scrawl etching itself behind his eyes.

“Why not?” Crowley asked as if he was being ridiculous.

“I’m not bringing you a—a suicide pill, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, the mere thought of existing in a world without Crowley tearing at him. 

“That’s not what I want it for,” Crowley insisted, baring his teeth. “Just insurance.”

Stuffing the note back in Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale wrung his hands. He didn’t want to do this but... “Please. Let me think about it. It’s...it’s dangerous.”

Aziraphale needed to leave. He was terrified he would cave under the weight of Crowley’s request. When had he ever been able to deny Crowley anything? But this was—this felt like a death sentence with Aziraphale cast as executioner.

“If you can’t get your hands on it—”

“Of course I can get my hands on it,” he hissed. “Do you really think it’s _ me _ I’m worried about?”

Crowley just looked at him, mouth turned down. He didn’t smile as often as he used to. 

Aziraphale shook his head. He wasn’t going to say it. Crowley knew how he felt. He’d practically confessed it over a plate of grapes ten years ago. “Please. Let me think about it.”

Crowley turned back to face the pond, still frowning. “Alright.”

In a puff of smoke, the note disappeared from his hand. Casually turning to him as if nothing of consequence had passed between them, Crowley said, "Lunch?"

Chest tight and mind whirling, Aziraphale shook his head. “No...no, I can’t.”

He turned and walked away hurriedly, boots kicking up the dust of the path but he hardly noticed. Crowley rarely asked him for anything, but this...Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he could live with this on his conscience.

Aziraphale sat in his bookshop for nearly a week, trying to distract himself with customers and his reading. It was no good and he knew it. His mind was constantly on Crowley. On the frightened look on his face at St. James’. 

Crowley had said it wasn’t a suicide pill and, demon or no, Crowley had yet to lie to him. About anything really. 

Sometimes, loving Crowley was as easy as breathing. The way his mouth tilted up into a quiet smile. How rewarding it was when it tipped into a full grin, crooked teeth and proud dimples. His affectionate jibes like he found Aziraphale absolutely fascinating. A truly interesting creature. A friend. 

Other times, when Crowley asked for something, Aziraphale found it unbearably difficult to be in love with him. Not because he found him unlovable, no, he didn’t think that was possible at this point, millennia of being in love proving _that_ without a doubt. No, because Aziraphale _ wanted _ to help him. Even though he knew he shouldn’t.

Crowley felt he wasn’t safe and that this thing that could destroy him would serve as protection. Aziraphale wished that Crowley could look at him and see protection because Aziraphale, fool that he was, would go to the ends of the earth to protect Crowley.

So it was with resignation that Aziraphale went to the apothecary and purchased a screw top bottle. It was with fear that Aziraphale filled it with water and blessed it. And finally, it was with love that he sealed it with wax and a prayer.

_ God, please don’t let me be doing the wrong thing_.

God was silent, but She didn’t smite him so it must not be too bad.

He kept the bottle in his bookshop for a day, sat on his desk where he felt it was watching him as he went about his business. He knew he was going to give it to Crowley, but it felt selfish, as if all he wanted was Crowley’s gratitude. But no, Aziraphale was dismissing his very real fears, fears he had not acknowledged in all the time he and Crowley had been in the arrangement. Staring at the bottle, Aziraphale realized with horror that he had been endangering Crowley for years. He snatched the bottle and put on his coat. If Crowley felt he needed protection, then he was going to get it. 

Aziraphale knew Crowley kept a flat in Mayfair even though Aziraphale had never been. It was where he sent their letters and Crowley had mentioned it a few times, but when they socialized it was always at the bookshop. Not that Aziraphale minded. He felt safe in his bookshop. But he had always found himself curious to see how Crowley lived.

It was shockingly modest, a small set of rooms above a milliner’s and Aziraphale ascended the steps in the alley beside the shop, bottle clutched in his hand. He tapped on the door and then steeled himself, making sure his expression didn’t betray any of the terror in his heart.

The door swung open and there was Crowley, still wearing the strange bracketed sunglasses he’d taken to in the last decade, but he had no hat or coat, just a black shirt tucked into his trousers. He looked...he looked...Aziraphale swallowed and knew he was blushing.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, sounding hesitant, one hand still on the door.

“Can I—can I come in?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley said stepping back. With a flash of insight, Aziraphale realized Crowley was nervous. That knowledge soothed some of the anxiety in Aziraphale’s belly. They weren’t on such uneven footing after all.

Removing his hat, Aziraphale stepped inside and shut the door. He took a deep breath, ready to give his little speech, hand over the holy water and go.

When Crowley started to speak, Aziraphale held up a hand. “I thought about what you asked.”

Crowley pursed his lips but gave no other sign of responding.

Heart in his throat, Aziraphale pulled out the bottle. “Please, Crowley. Before you use this—before you even _ think _ about using this, find me. I’m...I will do my best to help you.”

With something like awe, Crowley hesitantly reached out and took the bottle in both hands. Staring down at the little brown bottle, Crowley cleared his throat and then looked back up at Aziraphale, mouth slack. “I didn’t think you would give me this.”

“I almost didn’t.” A lie. 

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“Better not,” Aziraphale said with a wan smile. He felt exhausted from the sheer weight of what he’d done. If Crowley used this holy water then...

Crowley sucked in a breath and then turned away from him abruptly, leaving Aziraphale confronted by the way the fabric of his shirt draped over his slim shoulders, the hug of his trousers over his hips. Aziraphale’s stomach felt hot and it was too much so he dropped his gaze to his hands and toyed with the brim of his hat. 

Putting the bottle into the back of an empty wardrobe, back still to Aziraphale, Crowley said, “You really are my guardian angel, aren’t you?”

He sounded strange, voice pitched low as if he wasn’t even intending for Aziraphale to hear him. More than anything Aziraphale wanted to see his face. He felt as if, when Crowley turned around, he would have an answer to a question he couldn’t put words to.

“Something like that,” Aziraphale said, slipping his hat back on his head. 

“Aziraphale, I—” Crowley said, finally turning around, eyebrows drawn together like he was thinking very hard.

“Best be off then,” Aziraphale said, heart hammering so loud he felt God could probably hear it. He needed to leave before Crowley said whatever awful, sarcastic thing was on the tip of his tongue.

Aziraphale pulled open the door and hesitated. Turning back one last time, he said, “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

The door shut behind him with finality and he hurried through the streets back to his bookshop. He felt as if something heavy were on his chest. He needed a drink. To lie down. 

He had just collapsed at his desk, ready to toss aside all possible reprimands from Heaven and summon a bottle of whiskey, when a pounding at the door brought him back to his feet.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted through the door. “Let me in!”

Bewildered and still full of anxiety, Aziraphale opened the door, ready to ask what Crowley could possibly want now. Hadn’t he asked for enough?

As soon as the lock was turned, Crowley slammed through the door with unnecessary force, the bell tinkling above him as it swung open and then shut once more. The demon looked a mess, he hadn’t bothered to get dressed and Aziraphale wondered what sorts of looks he got tramping through the streets in such a state.

With his shoulders up around his ears, Crowley stared at him accusingly. “You ran off.”

Aziraphale felt very tired. It was exhausting to love someone so much. He was simultaneously happy Crowley was there and also frustrated that the demon couldn’t leave well enough alone. Aziraphale needed time to think about the Arrangement and all the not very angelic things he wanted with all his heart. He’d thought for years that if Crowley only wanted what he did that they could come together. _ Be _ together. But now…

“Well, you got what you wanted. I suppose I thought my services were no longer required.”

“Wha—services? I wanted—that’s—argh!” Crowley groaned, the noise cutting off his stuttering speech.

“What _ are _ you on about, Crowley?” Aziraphale demanded, squaring his shoulders and trying to think of the best way to get Crowley to leave. “I am very tired and I would very much like to—”

Aziraphale was prevented from finishing his sentence because Crowley decided at that very moment to kiss him.

Crowley took Aziraphale’s surprised stumble as an opportunity to press him back against the nearest wall, one hand coming up to cup his face and the other settling on his ribs. The touch felt like everything Aziraphale had ever dreamed, warm and forceful and _ wanting_.

His chest bloomed with a delicious heat that Aziraphale immediately forced himself to ignore as he pushed Crowley away. “What are you _ doing_?” It came out breathless.

“Kissing you,” Crowley said with a crooked grin that even Aziraphale could tell was cracking under his growing doubt. “You can’t tell me you don’t know what kissing is.”

“Yes, but _ why_?” Aziraphale said, very aware that he was still trapped against the wall by Crowley’s body, one of his bony knees thoroughly wedged between Aziraphale’s thighs. It felt unreal, like a long-entertained fantasy repeated once more, false and dreamlike.

“Because you want me to,” Crowley said simply, and then he dropped his face to Aziraphale’s neck to press kisses over his pulse. Aziraphale gasped and tried to remember that this was an awful idea. If this had happened a month ago, a _ week _ ago, Aziraphale would be tugging Crowley against him, kissing him within an inch of his life and _ reveling _ in it. But now he’d spent the last five days thinking of all the ways his actions could get Crowley killed. He couldn’t do this. They couldn’t do this. 

Aziraphale pushed Crowley off more forcefully and stepped away, tugging at his own waistcoat and wishing for more forgiving trousers. He supposed he couldn’t hide his reaction from Crowley. What did it matter after all? Crowley knew how Aziraphale felt. “You should go,” Aziraphale said, refusing to look at him. If he looked at Crowley, Aziraphale felt certain he would shake apart.

“Why?” Crowley asked and Aziraphale could hear his light footfall as he moved behind him once more. “I might have been a bit slow on the uptake but I feel the same way you do. Probably have for quite a while. Took me a bit to figure it all out I suppose.”

Aziraphale ignored the clawing sensation in his chest. Why now? Aziraphale wanted this, he did, but he _ couldn’t_. He doubted Crowley would see it that way. He’d always been one to throw caution to the wind. “You’re just confused,” Aziraphale said, casting about for some excuse. He needed something to hold onto, to tell himself so he didn’t lose himself in Crowley's crushed expression. “Perhaps you’re grateful or...or…”

Crowley’s lips pulled back into a snarl. “Grateful?” he snapped. “Right. So grateful I came all this way to snog you, declare my feelings and then piss off into the sunset? Is that right?”

Crowley reached out in an aborted attempt to touch him again but Aziraphale yanked himself away, hard enough that he stumbled into a table and sent his books crashing to the floor. He winced. 

“You’ve got your holy water,” Aziraphale said tersely. He could do this, send Crowley away. Perhaps if he struck hard enough, Crowley would leave for good. He felt his heart breaking at the mere idea of pushing Crowley away so cruelly, but what other option did he have? “You can leave now.”

“Alright, I get it,” Crowley said, changing tack, sounding desperate as he started to pace around Aziraphale. “You’re scared. Nervous. What have you. We can figure it out. We always do. You want me though. I know it.”

“What I want,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth, “is for you to leave before you do something that cannot be forgiven. Something we both know would be a mistake.”

Crowley froze.

“Mistake?” Crowley spat, hurt and angry and Aziraphale knew he was about to lash out. He also knew he deserved it.

“Whatever you want to call it,” Aziraphale said sharply, unable to control his own hurt. This was what he had intended but the crumpled look on Crowley’s face tore at him, sharp talons on his chest. It was awful. Of all the times he’d imagined kissing Crowley or telling him how he felt, it had never gone like this, the conversation opening like a wound.

Crowley’s nostrils flared as he breathed out heavily, anger turning his face red.

“I have plenty of other people to make _ mistakes _ with,” Crowley snapped before turning and ripping open the door to the bookshop, striding out into the darkness of the street and disappearing. He took Aziraphale’s heart with him.


	12. London, 1941

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense  
some canon dialogue

With fewer and fewer assignments from Heaven, Aziraphale found his own ways to spread good and in this case, he decided to spread good by thwarting Nazis. Which would have worked if Greta had been at all trustworthy. He should have known better really.

With a gun pointed at his face, Aziraphale looked heavenward and wished he had had even a bit of sense. The sound of a door slamming open at the back of the church distracted the Nazis enough that Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he could still figure a way out of this without a conspicuous—or even more frowned up—violent use of his powers.

Crowley skipped inside looking like a child playing hopscotch, bouncing from foot to foot as he made his way up the aisle. “Sorry!” Crowley said when Aziraphale gave him a perplexed look. “Consecrated ground.”

He huffed up to Aziraphale, bouncing awkwardly and hissing with each step. “It’s like being at the beach in bare feet.”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale said, shocked and pleased and very, very confused. He’d last seen Crowley when he kissed him in the bookshop. He’d called Crowley a mistake. And Crowley had stormed off. They’d never fought like that before and he’d thought Crowley would never...

“Stopping _ you _ getting hurt,” Crowley said meaningfully, still hopping about. Aziraphale’s chest ached.

“But I—”

“Oh, give me this one. You were always bandying about getting me out of trouble,” Crowley said, trying to lift himself up off the ground with one hand on a pew. He was so utterly ridiculous and so utterly dear.

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Really? The Garden, the Ark. Oh, and the grimoires. I could go on…” he trailed off, almost threatening as he peered at Aziraphale over the rims of his sunglasses.

Perhaps Aziraphale had been a bit more obvious in his affections than he had thought. How terribly embarrassing.

“Mr. Anthony J. Crowley!” one of the Nazis said, too chipper for someone with a gun in their hand. “Your fame precedes you.”

“Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, shooting Crowley a surprised look.

“What? You don’t like it?” Crowley asked, pausing in his little dance and then hissing when his feet started to burn again.

How was it that Crowley was always surprising him?

“I’m sure I’ll get used to it. Got used to Crowley, didn’t I?” Aziraphale said with a small smile. Finally seeing Crowley after decades of thinking their relationship was over made him feel so senselessly hopeful.

Crowley gave him a crooked grin.

“The famous Mr. Crowley. It’s a pity you must both die.” Greta said, cocking her gun.

Ignoring her, Crowley said, “In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here. If you all run away very, very fast you might not die.”

“You expect us to believe that? The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.”

“Yes,” Crowley said, looking pointedly at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. “It would take a last minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes. And if, in 30 seconds, a bomb does land here, it would take a _ real _ miracle for me and my friend to survive it.”

“A re—real miracle,” Aziraphale stammered. Oh. Crowley really had—maybe he wasn’t angry with Aziraphale anymore. Maybe he’d...forgiven him. Aziraphale’s heart swelled. He thought Heaven knew nothing about forgiveness and yet this demon...

The Nazi with glasses rolled his eyes and picked up the bag of prophecy books. “Kill them. They are very irritating.”

Unfortunately for him, the bomb fell.

As the dust settled, Aziraphale swiped at his coat. It wasn’t everyday he had to use his powers to stop a building from falling on him and he’d forgotten to avoid the dirt. “That was very kind of you,” he said to Crowley.

“Shut up,” Crowley drawled, taking off his sunglasses and barely hiding a smile.

“Well, it was. No paperwork for a start,” Aziraphale said, laughing a bit. What a relief. It would have been embarrassing to have to explain this to the other angels—

“Oh!” he cried as realization struck. “The books! I forgot all the books. Oh, they’ll all be blown to…”

Crowley plucked a bag from the rubble and put it in Aziraphale’s hands. “A little demonic miracle of my own.”

Something bloomed over Aziraphale’s chest all at once, warm and comforting. Aziraphale knew that sensation. He’d felt it before. 

He remembered it from that night in the bookstore after he had given Crowley the holy water, the way it had swelled and overtaken his body like it was doing now. It was...oh, it was _ love_. 

And it wasn't his own.

All of Aziraphale's thoughts grew silent under the litany of _ You love me. You love me. You… _

“Crowley, I—

“Don’t make a thing of it,” Crowley said, scrubbing the lenses of his sunglasses clean with a handkerchief. 

Aziraphale’s tongue felt as heavy as one of the shattered stones beneath his feet. He wanted to say so many things, but mostly he wanted to kiss Crowley even in the rubble of the church with the sirens blaring in the streets.

“Need a lift?” Crowley said casually, not looking at him. Was he—was he _ blushing_?

“Ye—yes,” Aziraphale stammered, clutching the leather bag to his chest. His thoughts were slamming into each other, jumbled and confused as he tried to understand what was happening. Crowley couldn’t—but Crowley _ did. _ It wasn’t just him saying he felt like Aziraphale or trying to kiss him; it was _ love_, pure and simple and overwhelming in its intensity.

“Bookshop?” Crowley asked, already breezing past him and all Aziraphale could do was follow in his wake, heart a very light fluttering thing in his ribcage.

They slid into Crowley’s very nice car in silence and as they drove across town Aziraphale finally asked, “How are your feet?”

“Bit tingly, but alright,” Crowley replied, not taking his eyes off the road.

When Crowley pulled up outside his shop, Aziraphale hesitated. He didn’t want Crowley to leave. Somehow the demon _ loved _ him and even if they couldn’t...well, they could still spend time together. “Come inside? A nightcap?”

Crowley’s nostrils flared as he gave him a small smile. “Alright.”

They walked to the door and Aziraphale fumbled with his keys before giving up and miracling the door open. Crowley snorted by his side but didn’t comment, just walked into the dimly lit bookshop, removing his hat and looking around the place. His hair was short, slicked back and parted. Always the height of fashion it seemed.

“So, Anthony then?” Aziraphale asked for lack of something better as he went to his cupboard and retrieved a bottle of wine. He was still reeling from his realization at the church, still exploring the warmth in his body and how every bit of it felt like Crowley.

“Do you know how often humans ask for first names these days? Bloody irritating it is,” Crowley said, taking a wine glass that filled itself as he sat on the old sofa nestled in the back corner of the shop.

Aziraphale wouldn’t know. He usually just went by Mr. Fell and people rarely asked questions. But perhaps that wasn’t Crowley’s style.

“What does the J stand for?”

“Er, just a J really,” Crowley said and Aziraphale shook his head. Leave it to Crowley.

They drank together, pointedly not mentioning that last time they saw each other they had snogged like teenagers. Aziraphale wanted to. He wanted to say _ I’m sorry I said what I said. I didn’t mean it. I love you. _The words were hot as coals in his mouth, practically burning. He swallowed them. An apology would get him nowhere.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that so he just kept drinking. Or he tried to, working up the courage to ask after something he’d been thinking about ever since Crowley had kissed him. “Crowley, can I ask you something?”

When Crowley didn’t protest, Aziraphale asked, “What’s it like to Fall?”

Aziraphale had spent the better part of fifty years thinking on it. If Crowley’s protection was holy water, what protection could Aziraphale have? He could only Fall. The thought didn’t terrify him like it once did. Crowley was Fallen and yet he still did miracles on Aziraphale’s behalf, blessings and good deeds. And Crowley was still kind. Perhaps if Aziraphale Fell, he could be like Crowley too. That didn’t seem so bad.

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Why are you asking me that?”

“I’ve just wondered, you know,” he said. “We’ve known each other an awfully long time. And I’ve never asked.”

Crowley looked up at the ceiling, mouth forming a thin line. Aziraphale thought perhaps he wouldn’t answer but then he began to speak. “You know, before in...Heaven, I made some of the stars. Did you know that?”

Aziraphale shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“That’s all I really remember,” he said. “Perhaps it was because it was ages ago, but the Fall also...it warped things. From before.”

“Did it hurt?” Aziraphale asked, entranced by this side of Crowley he so rarely saw. The demon was all whip crack wit and sharp anger. This was quiet and honest and Aziraphale knew he would replay the moment in his mind over and over until the end times.

“Not really,” Crowley answered with a half shake of his head. “The wings turning black burned a bit. The first time I turned into a snake hurt worse than that though. Bloody strange having your bones change shape.”

It did sound awful. “Thank you,” Aziraphale said, unable to tear his gaze from Crowley. “For telling me.”

“You won’t Fall, angel,” Crowley insisted, once more proving himself far too insightful for his own good.

“You don’t know—”

“Look, I was a rubbish angel, terrible at it. You’re _ nothing _ like that.”

Aziraphale had thousands of things he could say to that. Instead, he smiled weakly and said, “I’m glad you think so.”

The blooming feeling was back, his limbs were loose with it. Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. He knew now for certain that Crowley loved him. Whatever lies he’d told himself to protect his heart were just that. Lies, ugly and desperate. 

Crowley sighed deeply. “I wish we could—”

“Please don’t say it,” Aziraphale said. His heart had kicked up an asynchronous rhythm in his chest. It _hurt_, oh, it hurt like a hammer crashing into his ribs.

Crowley stared at him, clearly working himself up to say something else, but Aziraphale’s resolve was already wavering and he couldn’t bear to hear it. Aziraphale gripped his wine glass far too tightly and said, “You should go.”

“You’re probably right,” Crowley said. He set down his cup and stood, sobering with some effort. “Til next time.”

“Next time,” Aziraphale said, watching him go.


	13. Soho, 1967

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by poetic_nonsense
> 
> two chapters today so dont miss ch 12!

By some silent agreement, they didn’t contact each other. Aziraphale knew how Crowley felt and Crowley felt the same. It was folly to be together. As much as it hurt Aziraphale, it was _ dangerous _ and the threat of existing in a world without Crowley was more painful than the knowledge that they could never be together the way they both wanted. So they exchanged phone calls to invoke the Arrangement and if occasionally they lingered on the line, neither of them pointed it out.

Satisfied that this new Arrangement kept Crowley safe, Aziraphale could have gone on like this for quite some time if he hadn’t caught word that Crowley was out to rob a church. A ridiculous thing that would only draw attention to both of them and put Crowley at risk. So when he saw Crowley’s black Bentley parked two blocks from his bookshop, he confronted him about what was surely a reckless plan. 

Aziraphale slipped into Crowley’s car and the demon jerked back against the seat, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to rob a church? Really?”

“You don’t understand,” Crowley said, shrinking back against the door of the Bentley, his black clothes fading into the leather until he was just a pale face and a mop of red hair.

“I think I understand perfectly,” Aziraphale bit out, angry that he gave Crowley that holy water all those years ago to _ protect _ him from this and Crowley was still doing something so absurd. “I don’t know what you think is so important that you have to risk your life. It’s not worth it.”

“It’s for you,” Crowley snapped and Aziraphale froze in his seat.

“You told me you would come to me if you needed something like this.”

“I’m trying to protect you!”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath and then deflated. “There’s nothing to protect me from.”

“You clearly disagree. All that talk of Falling. The holy water…”

“Crowley...what are you trying to get your hands on?”

“...there’s something I heard of. An artifact of sorts. You shouldn’t be involved.”

“If you’re involved, I don’t see how I can’t be.”

“If I get my hands on this...we’d be safe. Safe to…” Crowley said quietly, his face illuminated by the red glow of the signs in Soho. “I know you won’t say it,” Crowley said, low and desperate. “But you feel the same way I do. I know it. But if I can get my hands on this, They can’t touch us. Please.”

Crowley looked at him, mouth soft and pleading and Aziraphale couldn’t—he _ couldn’t_.

Crowley put his hand out between them and Aziraphale shied away. “I can’t have you Falling for me,” Crowley said, still so soft, and while Aziraphale knew what he meant, the words still felt like an echo of something he’d been terrified to hear for the millennia before Crowley kissed him and said he—

Aziraphale’s eyes started to burn and he forced himself to maintain eye contact. “We both know it’s too late for that.”

He put his hand on the door handle, ready to push away but Crowley stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Aziraphale, that’s not—”

“Goodbye Crowley,” Aziraphale said firmly. He needed to leave. He needed to find somewhere where he could be alone.


	14. London, 2008

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense  
credit to neilman

Aziraphale returned to his bookshop feeling shaken. Gabriel had said the apocalypse was nigh. It was something Aziraphale had thought about fleetingly for years. All the angels knew this was the inevitable end of the Divine Plan, but there was a difference between knowing something was coming and having it actually arrive.

He hung up his coat with shaking hands and stared at the display case where he kept his misprinted Bibles. Oh, his _ bibles_. Looking around his bookshop, he felt his stomach grow heavy. All these books, books written by brilliant humans, mad humans. All of it, gone up in sulfur and lightning as demons and angels battled for the fate of the universe.

It would be the end of it all.

The phone rang and Aziraphale crossed to it quickly. It was late and he saw no reason why customers should be calling. He should really switch to an unlisted number. 

“I’m afraid we’re quite definitely closed,” he said tersely, tugging on his waistcoat absentmindedly. What he wanted to do was hang up the phone, pour himself a glass of scotch and sit and have a good think. He probably needed to speak to Crowley, warn him.

“Aziraphale, it’s me,” Crowley said over the line, sending tingles through Aziraphale. Over the years, Aziraphale’s response to Crowley’s voice had only gotten more noticeable. Surely some of that was due to the fact that Aziraphale _ knew _ Crowley felt the same and it only made the wanting worse. 

“We need to talk,” Crowley growled.

“Is this about—”

“Armageddon, yes.”

Relieved that Crowley already knew—Aziraphale hardly wanted to break _ this _news—Aziraphale said, “Can we meet? In the old place.”

The line was silent for a moment.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

St. James’ was much as it always was, ducks quacking in the pond, children running about and shrieking. It was all very idyllic, which made Aziraphale even more miserable. All this would be gone soon.

“They really asked you to deliver the Antichrist?” Aziraphale asked again. Despite how nice it was to see Crowley—really _ see _ him after all these years—he couldn’t linger on it. The world was supposedly ending and Aziraphale refused to entertain the horrible aching feeling in his chest that always started up around Crowley.

“They like my work Downstairs, apparently. All I had to do was hand it over. Should’ve crashed the car instead.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Can’t go around getting discorporated. Not now.”

Crowley hummed in acknowledgment and they were silent for a moment, Aziraphale thinking on all the hopeless things they could never do, the destruction of everything they held dear.

“An American diplomat? Really?” Aziraphale said drily. “And I thought _ my _ side enjoyed cliches.” 

“We’ve only got 11 years and then it’s all over. We have to work together,” Crowley said and Aziraphale looked at him sharply.

“Do you have some sort of idea?” Aziraphale asked, trying to tamp down the beginnings of hope growing inside him. Crowley had that way about him, making Aziraphale feel hopeful.

Crowley grinned, one eyebrow raised. “When have I ever run out of ideas?”

Aziraphale laughed. “I should have known better of course.”

Crowley reached out and put a hand on his knee, squeezing briefly before withdrawing. “Glad you were willing to meet.”

Heart working overtime, Aziraphale swallowed. He wanted to take Crowley’s hand and never let go. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t falter in such an obvious way. It was his own resolve keeping them safe and he had to maintain it. They shouldn’t touch each other with such familiarity, conversation was allowed—Aziraphale would never be able to cut off his feelings like that, not now that Crowley knew as well as he did how they both felt—but they had to keep their distance. 

Feeling himself go warm under a burst of Crowley’s affection, Aziraphale said, “I do believe Armageddon is a bit more important than our last disagreement.”

Crowley frowned.

“Regardless, I forgave you quite a long time ago,” Aziraphale said primly, enjoying the way Crowley’s mouth dropped open slightly, lips working and then clamping shut once more.

“Lunch?” Crowley said, sounding overwhelmed. He cleared his throat. “I still owe you one from...I definitely owe you one.”

“I’d go with you even if you didn’t owe me,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You know that.”

Crowley launched himself to his feet and started to fidget, jamming his hands into his too-tight trousers and barely waiting for Aziraphale to stand before walking off and out of the park. 

“Paris!” he cried when they came to the very illegally parked Bentley, startling Aziraphale who looked at him in surprise.

“1793,” Crowley explained sheepishly. “We had crepes.”

“We did, didn’t we,” Aziraphale said with a pleased smile. Crowley remembered.

Lunch was delicious. It didn’t go unnoticed that Crowley didn’t eat anything, just sitting there, staring at him with a small smile curving his mouth. He looked peaceful and happy and Aziraphale wished that it could be the way things always were, that it was the future they had. 

Not wanting the afternoon to end, Aziraphale asked, “So what are you in the mood for now?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that. How would you feel about a drink? Or several.”

“Perhaps we can discuss your _ idea _ then?” Aziraphale asked as they paid the check. He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him and his neck prickled with anticipation. It was a bad idea, going back to the bookshop alone. This was why they had stopped spending time together in the first place. They both wanted too much.

“I have several very nice bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape in the back,” Aziraphale chattered, nerves getting the better of him. “I picked up a dozen cases in 1921 and there’s still some left. For special occasions.”

Crowley hummed. 

When they arrived at the bookshop, Crowley settled into the reading nook in the back, waiting for him. Crowley hadn’t had much opportunity to visit Aziraphale’s shop but that didn’t mean that Aziraphale hadn’t spent a great deal of time picturing him there. What would it be like if Crowley lived there too? Always settled on some surface or other, basking that way he did, eyes closed, chin tilted up to the sun even when he was inside, just begging for Aziraphale’s hands on his skin, tipping his face up even higher so Aziraphale could pull him into a kiss...

“Not very big on wine in Heaven,” Crowley said. Aziraphale cleared his throat and handed him his cup. “Not if I recall.”

“They’re not very big on _ most _ things in Heaven. Why do you think I’m talking to you?”

“Because you _ like _ me,” Crowley said with a little snakelike weave of his head, clicking his tongue just to tease.

Aziraphale blushed, once more picturing pushing Crowley down on the sofa and running his hands through his hair while they traded slow, drugging kisses until sunrise. “I don’t _ like _ you. I am an angel, you are a demon, we’re hereditary enemies.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?” Crowley asked, nostrils flaring as he held back a laugh. They both drank from their cups and Aziraphale took the seat next to Crowley on the couch, clearly surprising him, if the way his eyebrows rocketed up his forehead was any indication.

Well, the blasted world was set to end so Aziraphale was absolutely going to sit next to Crowley on the couch. They wouldn’t touch. Of course not. But Aziraphale was willing to make this concession. Small as it was. 

Crowley scooted against the far side of the cushion and tried to look nonchalant, failing miserably. Aziraphale wondered if he looked nearly as uncomfortable. He sighed. “So this idea of yours?”

Crowley drained his cup. “Right. So. The way I see it, the Antichrist is just a baby. Yeah, spawn of Satan, but what _ matters _ is the upbringing. The influences. The evil influences, that’s all going to be me. And it would be too bad if someone made sure that I failed,” Crowley said meaningfully, leaning forward and cocking an eyebrow.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh! That’s brilliant!”

Both their glasses refilled of their own accord. Thoughts now aflutter, Aziraphale continued, “I can’t _ directly _ interfere with the Divine Plan but diabolical plans? I’m supposed to interfere with those.”

“It’d be a real feather in your wing. Heaven’ll probably give you a commendation,” Crowley said with a wicked grin.

Aziraphale scoffed. “I tell Gabriel I’m trying to thwart the demon making the Antichrist _ more _ evil and he’ll laugh. More evidence I’m the addlepated fool they think I am.”

Crowley’s steadily growing smile fell and Aziraphale regretted his comment. “You’d think Heaven would treat their sole denizen on Earth a bit better, you know.”

“You get used to it,” Aziraphale said wryly. “More wine?”

Crowley dropped the subject and held out his cup to be refilled. They drank steadily for several hours, talking about all the things they loved about Earth, why they want to save it. Aziraphale’s antique snuff boxes, his favorite terrible poetry. Crowley brought up whales and dolphins and music. 

“It’ll be just like the Arrangement,” Aziraphale said, somewhere like four bottles deep. What time was it. “Well, an extension of it.”

With something like deja vu, Aziraphale continued, “We’ll just be cancelling each other out.”

Crowley wobbled in his seat, leaning forward. “Best shake on it then. Tradition.”

He stuck out his hand and shook Crowley’s hand, pointedly ignoring the way Crowley’s gaze dropped to his mouth.


	15. Dowling's, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @ poetic_nonsense
> 
> two chapters today so don't miss 14!

“And how’s it going for you?” Crowley whispered in his ear from his seat behind Aziraphale on the southbound bus.

He did _ not _ shiver at the ghost of his breath over the shell of his ear. Aziraphale liked to think things were getting easier between them since they started working together to influence the antichrist. Neither of them breathed a word about confessions of love or anything unprofessional. This was _ work. _ “Warlock seems to be receptive to my tutelage.”

“Tutelage,” Crowley said, snorting at his choice of word. “Alright, good enough for now. Same time next week?”

“Can’t we just meet at the estate?” Aziraphale asked, tired of all the back and forth work of leaving the Dowlings, meeting Crowley in some secluded, ridiculous spot like a _ bus in transit_.

Crowley groaned. “I told you! We can’t be conspicuous.”

But even though he complained, the next week, Nanny Ashtoreth appeared at Francis’s door with a bottle of wine and a toothy smile on her face.

“Francis! I thought it might be high time that we got to know each other,” Nanny said dramatically, as if she thought someone might be listening.

“What a lovely idea,” Aziraphale responded, ushering her inside. Crowley looked very fetching in his Mary Poppins get-up. The jacket strained over his slim shoulders and those heels making him seem impossibly tall.

Aziraphale led her to the living room and gestured for Nanny to take one of the chairs by the fire. She sat primly in one and handed the bottle over to Aziraphale who hurried off to open it. He really was living like a human here at the estate, even in the privacy of the cottage, but Aziraphale wasn’t about to complain. There was something peaceful about it.

When he came back into the dining room, Nanny had removed her glasses and shoes and was looking down into her lap. 

“Here you go, miss,” Aziraphale said, handing over the glass.

Nanny sighed. “Can we not, Aziraphale?” 

Oh, that was Crowley. 

“I thought you wanted to keep up appearances,” Aziraphale said in his normal voice.

“Every day I’m with you I’m keeping up appearances. Pretending I don’t—” Crowley snapped. “I can’t add on top of it.”

Aziraphale’s mouth clicked shut. He hadn’t exactly been thinking of it like that. “I suppose I’ve been a bit longer practicing...pretending.”

“How much longer?” Crowley asked darkly, clearly feeling sorry for himself. Aziraphale felt a spike of irritation at his childish behavior which was immediately washed away by a wave of fondness. That was how it always had been when they fought. Made it difficult to stay angry.

“You don’t want to know,” Aziraphale said, sitting down on the worn flower-patterned couch with the odd brown stain on one cushion. Surely tea. Surely.

Crowley folded himself out of the chair and sat down next to him, wine forgotten. He put one hand over Aziraphale’s and brushed his thumb over his knuckles. “How much longer?” he asked again.

“Since that day on the wall,” Aziraphale admitted, caving to the feeling of Crowley’s hand on his even as he pulled away. It was so _ difficult. _

“What?” Crowley cried and when Aziraphale looked at him, his expression was almost exactly as it had been on that day outside of Eden. _I gave it away!_ He laughed and then found he couldn’t stop.

“Six thousand years,” Crowley repeated with a pained expression. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“To be fair,” Aziraphale said, taking a deep breath and wiping at his eyes, “I was fairly certain you’d never feel the same way.”

“Well, I bloody do,” Crowley said, snorting in frustration like an irritated horse. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “I want to touch you, you know.”

“Probably a bad idea,” Crowley admitted and when Aziraphale opened his eyes, they stared at each other for far too long. All Aziraphale wanted was to kiss him. The sensation in his chest—Crowley’s _ love _—felt like a burning light, so bright it threatened to burst from him. Aziraphale fisted his hand on his thigh.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, finally looking away. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

“About what?” Crowley asked, cocking his head.

“It’s probably better if we meet in public.”

“Can’t keep your hands to yourself, eh?” Crowley said, doing that thing with his tongue behind his teeth that drove Aziraphale mad.

Aziraphale shoved him back against the couch cushions. “You are _ foul_.”

“You love it,” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose as he teased.

Aziraphale really did.


	16. Bandstand, 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense  
s/o to neil for a bit of dialogue

Aziraphale tried. He did. He told Heaven about the missing Antichrist and it was met with the same disdain as all his other reports. If Heaven wasn’t going to help then it was just him and Crowley. Against Heaven and Hell. Aziraphale started to sweat just thinking about it.

“Meet me at the bandstand,” Aziraphale said into the telephone before Crowley could even issue a greeting. They needed to talk and they needed to do it somewhere neutral and...undistracting.

Crowley was very distracting these days. It was those trousers. But Aziraphale had _ things _ to worry about. Armageddon things. And they were much more important than Crowley’s trousers.

Crowley arrived at the park looking a mess and Aziraphale had to wring his hands just to stop from reaching out to touch him. The demon stalked about like a panther waiting for its prey to finally descend from the tree, manic and dangerous. Which was ridiculous because Crowley wasn’t dangerous. Not in the least.

“Crowley, we need a new plan,” Aziraphale began, taking a step towards Crowley who froze in his movements.

“What new plan? Isn’t this the Divine Plan you used to go on about? Ineffable!” Crowley cried and he slammed his fist into one of the posts of the bandstand. Aziraphale winced.

“Fucking ineffable,” Crowley said, cradling his now injured hand. He didn’t move to heal it and Aziraphale had no idea what to say.

“It’s all going down the drain, Aziraphale!” he continued, starting up his prowling once more. “The Antichrist? Lost! The world’s going to blasted Heaven in a handbasket and we need to _ leave _.”

Crowley’s head snapped up, turning to look at Aziraphale. “That’s it. Leave. We can leave. Run away together. You and me.”

“Run away together?” Aziraphale echoed. Possibilities flashed through his mind. Somewhere with Crowley where no one could touch them, where they could be together and no one would care. He swallowed against how much he _ wanted it_. 

“Crowley, you can’t mean that,” Aziraphale pleaded. “The world needs us.”

“Sod the world!” Crowley snarled. “It’s not worth a blessed thing if you’re not in it.”

Aziraphale felt like he was going to cry. It had been a good long while since he cried but the way his eyes started to hurt was familiar and aching. 

“Please Crowley, you can’t make me choose,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head and trying to breathe. Crowley reared back, nostrils flaring, teeth like fangs and looking so very hurt.

“Fine,” Crowley snapped. “I see how it is. Have fun with Armageddon.”

When Crowley finally faded into the distance, Aziraphale gripped the nearest pole and clutched at his chest. If they got through this, then they could talk. If Crowley would even listen to him. If they even survived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some folks have been commenting about the fast update schedule and dont worry im not writing these like lightning, the fic is written im just editing!
> 
> thanks for all the lovely comments and the support! this has been an interesting experiment in exploring aziraphale's character so im glad people are enjoying it!


	17. Mayfair, 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense
> 
> i posted twice today so don't miss ch 16. the last 3 chapters will be posted tomorrow!

The world didn't end and of all the mundane things that could have happened after, it was Aziraphale stepping into Crowley’s apartment for the first time. “You really live like this?” he asked, crossing to the atrium and looking over the plants, the only signs of life in the place.

“Hardly live here, angel. Just sleep,” Crowley said, sauntering through the entryway and towards a concrete door. He paused in the shadows and cocked his head at Aziraphale. “Coming?”

Aziraphale followed after, gaze raking over the austere walls, the gaudy winged statues. They had barely stepped into the living room when Crowley turned and tugged at Aziraphale’s coat, pulling them flush together before Crowley’s arms wound around his body so they could hold each other.

He could feel Crowley’s huffing breath on his neck as he raised his own hands to hold Crowley’s ribcage, a delicate thing fluttering under his hands. He didn’t think Crowley would like if he pulled away and saw the state of him, so he just stood there and absorbed as much comfort as he could from an embrace he’d waited for for five thousand years. 

“We survived, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed. Crowley smelled like ashes and Aziraphale wanted it gone. He wanted that brimstone and petrichor smell. Not this burning like evil and death.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, choked. “Yeah we did.”

Aziraphale smoothed a hand down Crowley’s back. “Perhaps you should shower. Would that make you feel better?”

Crowley clutched him tighter for a moment and then pulled away, eyes red-rimmed and face pale beneath the soot.

Aziraphale tugged at his wrist. “Come along.”

Hoping he was going the right way, Aziraphale took him through a door that led to the bedroom and then found the door to an en suite. He paused next to the bed and turned to Crowley, releasing his hold on his arm and bringing his hands up to the buttons of Crowley’s waistcoat. 

When he slipped the first button free, Crowley sucked in a breath. Eyes locking, Aziraphale felt his own breath catch in his throat as Crowley looked at him with those terrifyingly trusting eyes. He finished unbuttoning the waistcoat, hands skating over the soft fabric of the henley Crowley wore beneath it. 

Aziraphale pushed off the black garment and with it, Crowley’s blazer. He looked soft and half-burned standing in the dim light of his bedroom in only his grey shirt and black trousers. Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale reached out and cupped Crowley’s cheek briefly, moving his hand up to card through his hair as they shared a shuddering breath. He let one of his hands fist in the hem of Crowley’s shirt, his knuckles scraping the flat planes of his stomach before tugging the fabric up gently. Crowley let him. Blessedly, Crowley let him.

The skin under his shirt was unblemished, clean compared to the v beneath his neck which had been dusted in charcoal and turned a sickly gray. Aziraphale ran his thumb over it and Crowley’s hand shot out to clutch at his hip. “What are you doing?” Crowley grated out.

“Let’s get you in the shower, my dear,” Aziraphale said simply, hand dropping to Crowley’s waistband before Crowley seemed to realize what Aziraphale was about to do and he grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist.

“Is this a good idea?” Crowley asked. 

“Probably not,” Aziraphale admitted, grasping the metal button of Crowley’s jeans and tugging it through the hole. “But I find I absolutely do not care.”

They had almost died. The world had almost ended. And in the moment where the cracks of lightning filled the air and the pavement split apart, Aziraphale had felt a terror unlike any he had before. He would be snuffed out of existence alongside Crowley and never have touched him. Never held him the way he had wanted to for all of his time on Earth. 

For a heart-stopping moment, Crowley stared at him and Aziraphale was certain Crowley was going to kiss him, but then the demon tore his gaze away, eyelids fluttering shut. 

Aziraphale knelt in front of him and took off his boots carefully. Once they were discarded, he tugged Crowley’s trousers down, over his knees and Crowley let him remove them, eerily silent above him as he stared at Aziraphale on his knees.

“Why don’t you turn on the shower?” Aziraphale said as calmly as he could manage given how utterly aroused he was. It wasn’t the time. He wanted to take care of Crowley. The ravishing could happen later. They had time. All night. “I’ll join you momentarily.”

Crowley made a pleading noise in the back of his throat that pleased Aziraphale immensely. _ Later_, Aziraphale reminded himself.

When Crowley disappeared into the bathroom, Aziraphale turned back to the bed and began to disrobe as efficiently as he could even with his shaking hands. He heard the shower turn on and when he went into the bathroom, steam started to rise from the shower stall set into the black tiles of the bathroom, an obscenely large thing with room for at least five people. Well, it would just be the two of them.

Crowley was already under the spray, red hair flattened over his forehead, when Aziraphale slipped in behind him. The lights were harsher in the bathroom and they made Crowley look particularly pale, casting the jutting edges of his body in sharp relief. Aziraphale desperately wanted to touch him.

Instead he miracled soap and shampoo and set them on the shelf next to Crowley who opened his eyes, lashes stuck together with water and obscuring the gold beneath them. Aziraphale took the soap into his hands and started with the patch of Crowley’s chest that still held ash. The suds turned gray and then white as they washed into the drain. 

“Turn around, darling,” Aziraphale said quietly, the hum of the shower almost drowning his words. Crowley obeyed.

Aziraphale ran his soapy hands over Crowley’s shoulders and then down his back, sweeping his thumbs over the lean muscle that stretched from his shoulder blades to his spine. He had a freckle at the base of his neck. Aziraphale wanted to taste it.

“I’m going to wash your hair,” Aziraphale said. “Is that alright?”

Crowley hummed his agreement. His eyes had shut again and he looked relaxed and very beautiful. It had been Aziraphale’s intent to get him to look like that.

He scratched his nails over Crowley’s scalp, delighting in the low whine that emanated from Crowley’s chest when he did. There was no ignoring the fact that Aziraphale was aroused. The evidence of it was pressed against Crowley’s hip. But he was focused on scrubbing shampoo through Crowley’s hair as the crisp smell of apples filled the air. It made him want to laugh. Had he subconsciously summoned apple shampoo? Of course he had, sentimental fool that he was.

Crowley didn’t seem to notice, humming and pushing into Aziraphale’s hands. When the water finally ran clear, Aziraphale shut off the spray and they stood in the rapidly cooling shower for a moment, both breathing hard. Crowley turned and took Aziraphale’s hands in his, lifting them to press a kiss over his knuckles. 

Then Crowley’s hands were on his hips and he was being pulled against a hard, water-slick body and being kissed for the first time since 1862. Aziraphale could feel the nip of Crowley’s sharp incisors on his bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open so they could deepen the kiss as their chests pressed together.

It was clear Aziraphale wasn’t the only one aroused by the situation.

“Bed,” Crowley managed to say after a few aborted grunts, attempts to get words out.

“Don’t you think we’re a bit damp?” Aziraphale asked, knowing he was being cheeky because it was very satisfying to see Crowley like this, struggling to speak.

Crowley let out a noise of irritation and snapped his fingers, leaving them both miraculously dry. “Bed,” Crowley repeated, a bit more confident.

And so they both stumbled through the bathroom, exchanging kisses that they’d both ached for for centuries. Aziraphale would be embarrassed about how much he was shaking if Crowley weren’t shaking too. 

They crawled into bed together and Aziraphale paused, putting a hand to the dip in Crowley’s chest and saying, “Is this alright?”

“It bloody well would be if you didn’t keep trying to stop me,” Crowley complained, a petulant grumble. Aziraphale smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth.

It felt glorious to have Crowley’s hands on him after all these years and to be able to whisper “I love you” and “you're so beautiful” into Crowley’s ear as his hands skated over Aziraphale’s chest and grasped at his soft belly.

Aziraphale didn't know what he was doing, but Crowley seemed to have a better idea, summoning something slick that let them slide against each other without the keen and painful drag of sensitive skin. Pushing Aziraphale onto his back, Crowley climbed on top of him, rocking against him until they were both gasping into the other’s mouth.

With the way his heart was thundering in his chest, Aziraphale felt certain it would skip right from his chest. Touching Crowley wasn’t enough. It felt impossible to get close enough, there were no words to express the infinite feeling inside him. He wanted to spend eternity trying.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasped into his shoulder as he spilled between them, sharp fingers digging into Aziraphale’s hips when he bit down on the flesh of Aziraphale’s shoulder and whimpered. A pause.

“Let me…” Crowley began, speaking into his skin as he began to move down the bed. “I’d like to…”

Not entirely sure what was about to happen, but painfully hard and unconditionally willing, Aziraphale let Crowley do as he pleased—which turned out to be taking Aziraphale into his mouth and doing something wicked with his tongue that had Aziraphale’s muscles locking as his orgasm crashed into him. Crowley swallowed around him and then they were kissing again, a messy thing that made Aziraphale feel like rubber.

They laid there for a moment, both breathing a bit hard as they came down. Then Crowley snapped his fingers and they were clean and under a blanket. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for about a century, you know,” Crowley said, tracing an idle shape on Aziraphale’s side.

Aziraphale snorted. “Oh, a century! Poor you!”

“Sorry it took me a bit bloody longer than you,” Crowley groused, wrinkling his nose. Aziraphale kissed it and Crowley jerked back, looking quite like a disgruntled cat.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand. “As much as I’d like to spend the rest of the night doing exactly this, I do believe we have a prophecy to figure out.”

Crowley grinned, one of his genuine ones, all crooked teeth. “I think I may have an idea about that, actually.”

Aziraphale smiled back and he squeezed his hand. “You always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [come hang out on tumblr](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com)


	18. The Ritz, 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense but its had some work since then so all mistakes are my own  
s/o to neilman for some dialogue

They went to lunch at the Ritz, a mirror of that day 11 years ago, except it was better because they were _ free _ and the world didn’t end and it might not for a very long time.

“I know you don’t like when I say it,” Aziraphale said, putting down his fork. “But I don’t think any of this would have worked if you weren’t, deep down, a little bit of a good person.”

Crowley scoffed. “On about that are we? Well, it wouldn’t have worked if you weren’t, deep down, a little bit of a bastard.”

Aziraphale laughed and they shared a drink. (_T__o the world) _.

Looking at Crowley, Aziraphale felt just like the champagne in his cup, effervescent and threatening to overflow. For all intents and purposes, they were _ safe_. They could be anything. Do anything.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale began, nerves creeping over the jubilant feeling inside him, “that time in Mesopotamia? Before the ark?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows expectantly. “I remember most of the time I spent with you. That one’s no exception.”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered and he looked at his plate. “Did you actually stow away on the ark? I never saw you.”

Crowley smiled at that, self-satisfied. “Succeeded in hiding from you, did I?”

“You wily serpent,” Aziraphale said reproachfully, flapping his hand. “I thought you were stuck in Hell.”

“Nah. Avoided that. Thanks to you,” Crowley said. He tipped his glass in cheers motion and took another drink. 

Aziraphale placed his hand atop of Crowley’s where it lay on the table and Crowley turned his palm up so they could tangle their fingers together. 

“We’re doing this, are we?” Crowley asked carefully, staring down at their clasped hands. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

Aziraphale tightened his hold on Crowley’s hand, the skin of his palm smooth. “I don’t rightly care. Whatever happens, I think this is worth fighting for.”

“Glad we’re finally on the same page then,” Crowley said coolly.

And Aziraphale had to stop himself from snogging Crowley in the middle of the Ritz. He had standards, you know.


	19. A.Z Fell and Co., 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense

“I was thinking, I dunno, that we could go away. Somewhere, you know. Somewhere nice. The two of us.”

Aziraphale put down his pen and turned his full attention to Crowley. They did this a lot now, spending time in the bookshop, Aziraphale working while Crowley prowled about the place, exploring, reading, fiddling on his phone. Just having him there settled Aziraphale and it was ridiculous how incandescent it made him feel.

Crowley leaned up against Aziraphale desk and looked at the ground. “I found a, er, a sort of cottage. Near Brighton. Thought you’d like it. Bucolic. Practically picturesque.”

“Dearheart, are you _ nervous_?” Aziraphale asked, raising his eyebrows over the wire rims of his glasses. Crowley looked away.

“No. ‘m not nervous. _ You’re _nervous,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves.

“The countryside sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said to put Crowley out of his misery. I suppose we could always pop back to London when we want to make a little mischief. Not that there’s anything wrong with the country, but London really does have all the amenities.”

“Wait. Am I making mischief or are you making mischief?”

“I don’t see why we can’t take turns,” Aziraphale said lightly, knowing it drove Crowley wild when he tossed aside his angelic disposition. A little bit of a bastard indeed.

Sure enough, they ended up making love on the couch in the back of bookshop until Aziraphale’s corporation was sore from overuse and they were forced to take a break.

“I think we’re getting jolly good at that,” Aziraphale said from where he was half-sprawled over Crowley’s chest, sweat slick and sated.

Crowley snorted, his ribs puffing up and jiggling Aziraphale from his comfortable position. “Right. Jolly good. That’s exactly how I’d phrase it.”


	20. South Downs, 2021

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by @poetic_nonsense

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called from the kitchen as he stared at the onion on the cutting board.

Crowley appeared in the doorway to the galley kitchen so quickly he might as well have been waiting just outside of it. “Yeah?”

He paused and stared at Aziraphale who supposed he did look a bit silly in his tartan apron and rolled up sleeves. Crowley looked up and sighed. “You’re set to kill me, you adorable bastard.”

Aziraphale blushed and tapped the knife in his hand against the cutting board. “I don’t think I’m supposed to leave the peel on am I?”

Crowley glanced at the onion and then nudged Aziraphale with his hip. “Of course you’re not supposed to use the bloody peel. In all your existence have you ever _ once _ eaten an onion peel?”

“Stew, 1846 in Ireland,” Aziraphale retorted, not liking Crowley’s tone.

“Yeah but that was during the famine. Not exactly a good reference point.”

Aziraphale supposed Crowley was right. “Fine. I will remove the peel.”

Crowley hopped up on the counter beside him and let his heels bounce against the white cupboard doors beneath the worktop. “What are you making?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, chopping the onion in half and then carefully beginning the process of removing the peel. Crowley snatched the other half and did the same. “If you must know, I’m making cottage pie.”

“Speaking of potatoes,” Crowley said, one eyebrow arched. He rarely wore his sunglasses inside the cottage and Aziraphale loved how he could always see his eyes. 

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale said. “I wanted to use the vegetables you grew. The carrots looked particularly scrummy.”

Crowley smiled, a small thing that barely tipped the edges of his mouth, as he picked at one of his nails and cast his gaze out the kitchen window where it overlooked the garden. “I think the tomatoes turned out better.”

“Well, tomatoes don’t go in cottage pie,” Aziraphale replied, steadily mincing the onion. 

“They could,” Crowley pointed out.

“Let me try to follow the recipe at least once and then we can experiment.”

Crowley hummed and slid off the counter. “I’ll go into town and pick up a bottle of red. Should go alright with pie.”

“Could you get some sugar?” Aziraphale asked, tipping the now chopped onion into a bowl. 

Crowley paused in the door and gave him a look. He liked to tease Aziraphale about how many sweets he'd been making. As if he didn’t eat just as many. “What for?”

“The wild cherries out back are coming in and I’d like to make some tarts.”

“I like cherries,” Crowley said absentmindedly.

Aziraphale smiled as he put a freshly washed carrot on the cutting board. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi folks! thanks for sticking with this story! it really ended up being quite the character study.
> 
> [find me on tumblr here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com)


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